


Run to You

by usuallysunny



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Angst, Bodyguard Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hate to Love, Jon and Sansa Are Not Related, Queen Sansa, Smut, alternative universe, broody Jon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-03-02 04:58:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18804178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallysunny/pseuds/usuallysunny
Summary: He thinks she's naive, a spoilt Princess soon to be a pampered Queen. She thinks he's cold, indifferent and far too serious. Jon Snow and Sansa Stark can't stand each other, but when he's assigned as her personal guardian, to keep her safe, they learn to grin and bear it.Falling in love was never part of the plan.





	1. Prologue

For as long as Sansa can remember, she has dreamt of marrying a prince.

She’s young, naïve in the ways of the world, but if she’s sure of anything, she’s sure of this. She was born to be a Queen. Her connection to King Joffrey has been written in stone since before she was even brought into the world, a contract that binds beyond death.  

She will do her duty and if the King doesn’t love her yet, he surely will.

It’s fate, after-all.

Yes, Sansa is a confident young girl. She knows who she is, what she is, and she doesn’t like surprises.

She thinks she knows what to expect, as her father grips her hand and sends her a sure smile. The ship is reaching its destination now, the sun setting over the horizon. It takes her away from the only home she’s ever known, Kings Landing fast approaching in the distance.

A wave of nausea hits her, festering in the pit of her stomach. She wishes she’d listened to her mother when she gave her advice on which herbs ease persistent sea sickness...

But _that_ , she thinks, is all in the past now. Insignificant. A lump rises to her throat and she blinks back the hot tears that suddenly sting behind her eyelids.

Mother, Bran, Rickon, Arya, Robb… all memories that will surely fade as fast as the blue ocean behind her.

She has a new life now. A new place in the world. Panic blisters her stomach and she tries to quell it, tries to turn it into something exciting, rather than something paralysing.

She knows that her life is about to be turned upside down.

She knows that she is to be a wife, a Queen and eventually a mother.

She knows that she will fall completely and utterly in love with a man who is fierce, passionate and wild.

What she _doesn’t_ know... is that this man will not be Joffrey at all.

 

 

 

Sansa takes a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart.

Her father’s touch soothes as it always does, as he takes her face in his hands and places a gentle kiss on her forehead.

“You will be fine,” he reassures her, eyes soft and kind, “I will be right here and they will love you, as we all do.”

She swallows the lump in her throat, sending him a watery smile. She fights back the tears, determined to be strong. To not be one of those stupid, swooning noble girls.

She’s _Sansa Stark_ ; she’s better than that.

The impressive mahogany doors open with an audible creak as two guards push them apart. The nerve endings in Sansa’s body fire as her skin thrums with anticipation, before she catches the first sight of her betrothed.

King Joffrey.

He’s sitting slack in the Iron Throne, legs draped over the side casually and crown lopsided atop his golden curls.

Sansa feels her chest swell with adoration and respect for her King. She’s certain they will grow to love each other very deeply; how could they not?

She clutches at her father’s arm like the ground is quicksand beneath her feet, like she’s at risk of fading away, vanishing into the dark. She needs him to keep her grounded, as she always has, and by the time she reaches the throne, her nerves have settled.

She curtsies the way mother taught her and her eyes lock with the King’s.

“Lady Sansa,” he greets in a voice higher than she expected, “what a pleasure it is to finally meet you.”

Sansa beams a bright smile in response and she’s too young, too naïve in the ways of the world, to detect the sinister edge to his voice.

“The pleasure is mine.”

The introductions are quick and easy. Joffrey rises and struts about, his movements more akin to performing on stage than sitting on the throne, as he barks his orders and courtiers shuffle around him.  Sansa notices how nervous they are, how jittery, but she tries to put this to the back of her mind.

Joffrey introduces her to his grandfather, a severe man named Tywin who looks like he’s never smiled in his life. His daughter, Joffrey’s mother, seems no different. Cersei gives no greeting, but rather looks at her up and down, calculating, drinking her in like a lion does to its prey, before it rips it apart. The only Lannister Sansa takes an immediate liking to is the dwarf Tyrion, who gives her a friendly smile and tells her _“welcome home”_.

The rest are nameless faces, knights and jesters and courtiers she won’t have a hope in hell of remembering. Her mind floods and it’s all very new, very intense. Just when she hopes it’s over, that there are no more names to remember, Joffrey brings another man forward.

“This is Jon Snow,” he declares, voice even and a little bored, “He’s a bastard, but a damn good one when it comes to fighting. He will be looking after you. Your own personal guard, if you like.”

Sansa stares at the man, gaze narrow and curious. She wants to ask why a guard is necessary, wants to insist she doesn’t need to be looked after, but she’s already sensing that her betrothed has a short temper and she doesn’t wish to rile him so soon.

Jon Snow’s brow is arched and his hands are clasped behind his back.

Sansa doesn’t like it.

She waits for him to bow, to kiss her hand, to show her any kind of attention at all. Put out, she withdraws her hand and frowns at his lack of grace, of decorum.

“There will be those who wish to hurt you, milady,” Joffrey says, but his mouth quirks at the corners, “Enemies of the throne. I do not have time to constantly watch you. While I am attending to matters of state, Snow here will keep you safe. When we are married and I put a child in you, he will keep that safe too.”

Sansa balks, terrified at the prospect, but she forces herself to stand tall. Her _guardian_ doesn’t react, jaw clenched tight and eyes staring straight ahead. If he’s offended by the reminder that he’s a bastard, by the way Joffrey seems to patronisingly sneer at him, he doesn’t show it.

He doesn’t show anything at all.

The introductions continue and the crowd erupts into applause once the festivities begin.

Sansa tries to blend, to find her new place. She makes idle small talk and flits around the room, meeting as many new people as possible.

All the while, she feels the heat of Jon Snow’s eyes on her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I jump on the GoT train far too late and watch seven seasons in like three weeks? Yes, yes I did. Am I weirdly in love with Sansa and Jon? Yes, yes I am. Kudos/comments are most appreciated, as I'm new to the fandom so have no idea if anyone's even interested in this...


	2. Chapter 2

Eddard Stark returns to Winterfell and Sansa is alone.

She forces herself to be strong, to be a grown up, but her hands shake as she folds her pretty dresses and lays them on her bed and her voice trembles when her handmaidens speak to her. 

While she wants to do this for her family, to strengthen their position and ensure their safety, she feels traded like cattle, drowning under the weight of expectation. 

“You have another family now, Princess,” Shae, already her favourite, tries to cheer her up, placing a soft hand on her shoulder, “not new or a replacement, but additional. Your old family does not cease to matter just because you’re marrying into another one. Just more people to love."

Sansa’s head turns and she sends her a watery smile. She places the last dress on her bed and takes Shae’s hands in hers.

“Thank you,” she says appreciatively, giving them a squeeze, “I shall need your support in the coming months. In the North, they treat my father like a King, but I am not a Princess. Not really. You can call me Sansa.”

Shae’s eyes widen, unused as she is to being treated as an equal rather than a servant.

“You are Joffrey's Princess until you are his Queen," Shae shrugs, "But as you wish… Sansa.”

Their moment is interrupted by some chaos outside the door, with the other handmaidens speaking in hushed whispers and giggles.

“What is it?” Shae asks, a harder edge to her voice now.

One of the women – _Sera_ , Sansa thinks, though there are so many names to remember - clears her throat, clearly trying to slip back into proper professional mode.

“Nothing, my lady. It was merely Jon Snow walking past your door,” she informs as the others continue to giggle behind her.

Sansa’s eyes flit between her and Shae, confusion written on her features.

“My guard?" She raises a brow, “Well yes, I suppose that's his job. To check up on me,” she spits the words out, even more bitter than she intended, “I don’t see what’s so funny about it.”

The corners of Shae’s mouth quirk into an amused smile and there’s a distinct gleam to her dark eyes as she meets Sansa’s gaze again.

“Forgive me, but I do not think _humour_ is the feeling Lord Snow invokes in your ladies.”

"He's not a lord," Sansa frowns, not understanding, "and what is that supposed to mean?”

Shae’s gaze flits to Sera’s and her brow quirks. The tip of her head is minute, but it’s enough to let the other handmaiden know she expects an answer.

Sera shifts on her feet, nervous, and when she speaks her voice is hushed and sheepish. 

“Well… he’s very handsome, my lady,” Sansa watches her cheeks explode into heat, a blush rising up her neck, “I’m afraid some of the girls are rather smitten.”

Sansa tries unsuccessfully not to roll her eyes. Raised with three brothers and a sister who might as well have been a boy, Sansa has never been the sort to swoon over an attractive man. She knows that true beauty runs deeper. She knows that a pretty face can, in-fact, be the most dangerous thing in the world.

And Jon Snow's is very pretty indeed.

 

 

The days dawn surprisingly sunny and warm on the east coast of Westoros and Sansa misses the cold like a hole in her chest. 

She decides to make the most of it, however, as strong women do. Clutching a book from the impressive Lannister library to her chest, she chooses a particularly sunny part of the day to wander the grounds, Shae and Sera lingering close behind.

Just as she finds a spot to sit and let the sun bathe over her pale skin, she hears the sound of a sword slicing the air.

She hovers over the bench she’s found and decides not to sit, a frown pulling at her brows.

“What was that?”

Shae and Sera glance at each other, wearing matching expressions of confusion.

“I am not sure, my lady,” Sera answers finally.

The sound echoes louder, this time the metallic clank of a sword being sharpened, and Sansa’s eyes flit around to find its source.

Eventually, just between two hedges to her right, she finds it.

_Jon Snow._

He’s sitting on a rock and sharpening his sword, a boy playing with his favourite toy. Sansa thinks about leaving him alone, about finding another spot, but she’s always been too curious for her own good. She finds herself wanting to discover more about the strange man, the one assigned to keep her safe. Surely to do that there needs to be some semblance of respect between them, of trust.

“Leave me, girls,” she says, and she’s not asking, “I will be fine.”

She adds the second part at their uneasy expressions.

“It’s only Jon Snow,” she rolls her eyes, gesturing to him, “Am I not supposed to be safest when with him?”

Sera and Shae give reluctant, curt nods and their eyes linger even as they walk away.

Sansa fights the urge to roll her eyes again as she lifts her skirts and walks over to him.

He seems to feel her before he sees her.

“My lady,” he says without looking up, his voice a rumbling brogue.

“I do hope I’m not disturbing you…” Sansa says, half joking, as she takes a step towards him and lets her eyes float to his sword.

Jon pauses, dark gaze finally flickering to hers.

“Of course not.”

She waits for a beat. When it becomes obvious he’s not going to offer anything else in way of conversation, she speaks again.

“I wondered what the noise was.”

He looks up at her again, quirking a brow.

“I’m sharpening my swords,” he points out the obvious, an uninterested air to his low voice. He doesn't bow to her or treat her like a princess, doesn't fuss over her like her handmaidens or try to charm her like the other Knights. 

He looks at her like he's her equal. 

As inexplicably irritated by his reticence as she is, Sansa also finds it intriguing.

“And here I came to the gardens for some peace and quiet,” she gestures teasingly to the book in her hands, her own brow quirking to match his expression. Her expression is kind, soft, as she feels the sun bathe over her. The thought that she could get used to this after-all crosses her mind. “I think I should like to come here and read sometimes.”

He stares at her for a beat before his eyes seem to narrow and he stands.

She watches him brush himself off, gathering his swords. When he stands to full height and looks down at her again, she’s suddenly struck by how beautiful he is.

 _It really is unfair_ , she thinks, for a man that sullen and brooding to be so beautiful. She thinks he doesn’t deserve it.

“I’ll find somewhere else,” he says coldly, seemingly misunderstanding her meaning and dismissing himself with a slight nod of his head.

Sansa’s head turns with him as she follows him.

“You don't need to do that,” she frowns, releasing a humourless breath, “I just meant I… I am not used to gardens like these. They’re pretty… I imagine reading here will be very relaxing. That bench over there is more than suitable. I can sit there."

She gestures to the bench she had originally found, just past the hedges, but Jon’s jaw remains tight.

“Aye, you can sit anywhere you please,” he murmurs, “but I’m sure you wouldn’t want me scrambling about when you’re trying to relax.”

Sansa frowns again.

“I can’t imagine _you_ ever scrambling about.” From what she’s seen of him, every step seems to be calculated, careful. She can’t picture him fazed or anxious or scared. 

Jon’s expression is unreadable as his eyes flicker over her.

Sansa fights the urge to shrink. She’s no stranger to men gawking at her, especially not since she bled and grew into her body. She knows she’s pretty – beautiful, even – with her alabaster skin, striking eyes and flame coloured hair. She’s used to men looking.

But no-one’s ever looked at her like _that._

His eyes are dark, penetrating, like he’s trying to figure her out. She doesn’t know if he gets the answer he wants, or what he’s even looking for, but he eventually takes a step back.

“Either way, I do not wish to be a burden.”

“It seems as though _I’m_ the burden,” Sansa mutters under her breath, “am I really so intolerable? How are you supposed to act as my guard if you cannot stand my presence?”

“I did not mean any offence, Princess,” he says, but his expression remains cool, indifferent.

“Please,” she lets out an incredulous breath, “your coldness seems so indiscriminate, I choose not to take it personally.”

Jon’s jaw hardens again and his eyes seem to flash. Still, he doesn’t object, doesn’t apologise and Sansa finds herself wanting to throttle him.

“His Grace has decided we will be spending much time together. I merely assumed you would prefer _some_ peace and quiet without my presence, sharpening swords, banging around and the like. This silly misunderstanding is far beyond me.”

“So now I’m silly?” Sansa fumes, affronted.

Jon sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs eventually, “I must take my leave. I shall see you soon, Lady Sansa.”

It’s the first time he’s ever said her name and the sound of it flares something inexplicable to life. 

He tips his head to her again and then he’s gone.

Sansa stares after him, anger and confusion and another emotion she refuses to name – fiery, passionate, _exciting_ – rushing through her blood.

 

 

  
A letter comes to her that evening, waiting for her, slipped under her door.

She picks it up, turning it over in her hands a few times, before she opens it. Her curious eyes flit over the parchment, taking in the elegant scrawl.

_Please accept my sincerest apologies for the offence I may have caused you._

_Yours,_

_Jon_

Sansa stares at the words for a moment, almost expecting them to slip off the page, into the dark.

She feels guilty for a moment, knowing deep down that she overreacted. Although she's always been somewhat fiery by nature, she's surprised at how strongly she reacted, how quickly he got under her skin. 

Clearly a man of few words, the letter doesn't say much.

But it says enough.

 

 

 

Things fall into place, people fall into routines, and Sansa soon comes to the conclusion that Jon Snow is the most infuriating person she’s ever met.

He's aloof and bad tempered, a downright prude determined to ruin her fun. Every time she tries to sneak off, to play with the dogs or venture into the city or _breathe_ without King Joffrey snapping at her heels, Jon Snow is there. With his jaw locked tight and his dark eyes staring ahead, he's always bloody there. As the Princess's personal guardian, it's his job to keep her safe, but Sansa wishes he'd loosen the reigns now and then.

Her hypocrisy, the fact that she had initially been offended by his aloofness, is not lost on her.

 _Her protector_ , Sansa wants to scoff at the word. It's funny, how his protection feels more like a noose around her neck.

Her handmaidens and the noble girls in court don't see it this way. When she walks through the hallways, Jon trailing close (but not too close) behind, Sansa notices the way their hungry eyes follow him. She sees the stars in them, the adoration, and she hears their tiny giggles as they scatter away.

 _Idiots_ , she thinks scornfully. They have no idea that being pinned under his watchful eye is actually the most annoying fate in the world.

He might have them wrapped around his finger, but she's stronger than that.

She's stronger than impeccably fitted suits and a jawline that could cut glass. She's stronger than dark raven curls that fall over even darker eyes and a rare smile that, when surfaced, he hurls as a weapon. He reduces the girls around him to putty in his hands, but she's not for moulding.

It doesn't matter who she's betrothed to, Sansa will always be a Stark, made of a different material entirely.

Jon doesn't even have a house. He's not a Stark or a Baratheon or a Lannister. He's the product of a wordless tryst between two strangers, a whore and a drunkard who conspired to create her own personal nightmare. If he wasn't so talented with a sword, Sansa would never have had the displeasure of meeting him.

Usually it's Knights who protect Princesses, but Jon Snow's reputation as a fighter is unparalleled. Strength flows from his fingertips, every step a choreographed dance, and there is no better swordsman in all Seven Kingdoms.

Not that Sansa would ever tell him this.

Jon Snow is the _worst_ \- and nothing will ever change her mind on the matter.


	3. Chapter 3

"Can't keep up, Snow?"

Sansa's tone is taunting as she lifts her skirts and rushes through the halls.

Through her periphery vision, she sees Jon unsuccessfully try not to roll his eyes. Her legs are lithe and long, the envy of many, but his are longer. With his every one step, he matches two of hers.

"I just don't see why you're in such a rush, my lady."

Sansa frowns. She hates it when he calls her that. He always sounds so sarcastic, so derisive, she gets the feeling he doesn't think she's a lady at all.

"Am I not allowed to be excited to see my betrothed?" She asks, stubbornly trying to keep the breathlessness out of her voice, as he easily matches her pace beside her.

Something flickers over Jon’s face but it's gone before she can fully decipher it.

It’s been a few weeks now, but Sansa has spent little time with King Joffrey alone. Now, heading towards the banquet hall to spend breakfast together, she’s excited to learn more about him.

"Of course," Jon's voice is back to unreadable, "Ignore me."

"I always do."

He doesn't react, but rather keeps his gaze fixed straight ahead. She stares at him for a moment, at the strong lines of his face, before she rolls her eyes.

 _Boring_ , she thinks when he doesn't bite back. _Jon_ _Snow_ _is_ _so_ _boring_ _._ _And_ _dull_ _._ _And_ _miserable_ _._ _And_ _simply_ _insufferable_ _._

Sansa doesn't know it yet, but months later, when she comes to better understand the unpredictable nature of her betrothed's fury, she will yearn for that calm air Jon Snow carries with him.

 

 

 

“The wedding will be in two months,” Joffrey declares, leaning back in his chair.

Sansa swallows past the lump in her throat, suddenly nervous.

“Yes, my Lord. Very good.”

“Your _Grace_ ,” he corrects her scornfully, cold eyes narrowing. Sansa balks but tries not to let it show, plastering a smile on her face.

“I apologise, your Grace. I am still unused to matters of royal decorum.”

“Yes, you would be, wouldn’t you?” Joffrey sighs, bored, as he runs his finger along the edge of his goblet, “no matter. You will learn soon enough.”

“I look forward to it,” Sansa smiles but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, “I am most eager to become your wife.”

“Good.” Joffrey nods curtly, suddenly as unsure and nervous as her. It strikes her then, how young he looks. How small. She wonders how old he is, if he’s even any older than herself, and then she wonders how it must feel to have the weight of seven kingdoms on your shoulders.

She wants to help, wants to share in that burden.

Her hand kind of reaches out for him across the table, before she draws it back.

After-all, they don’t really know what they are to each other. They don’t quite fit.

But he is right. She will learn many things under his tutorship.

How to smile when she feels like dying… this will be the first.

 

 

  
"Pray tell, my great knight..." Sansa's sarcastic tone is cut with irritation as she sits up in bed, “how _exactly_ am I supposed to sleep with you staring at me?"

The tip of Jon's head is minute as he quirks a brow. He sits in the corner of her room, half cloaked in shadow.

"I am not a knight."

Sansa knows this. He knows she knows this.

"Oops…” she drawls, completely insincere, and her brow quirks to match his expression.

"Besides..." Jon closes his eyes, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest, "It's my job."

Sansa rolls her eyes.

"It's annoying."

Jon's arms stay crossed and his eyes stay closed.

"So are you," he murmurs, "but I don't judge."

A smirk pulls at the corner of Sansa's lips, but she won't give him the satisfaction.

"You cannot speak that way to your Queen."

Jon pops an eye open, dark brown on piercing blue.

"You are not Queen yet,” he points out, voice sure and smooth, and Sansa could swear she sees the hint of a smile on his lips.

"Jon Snow, be careful,” she rests back on the sheets, getting comfortable, "I do believe that might be the beginnings of a smile on your face. I did not think that possible."

Jon closes his eyes again, looking strong and sure and far too peaceful.

"Hmm,” is all the response she gets.

Sansa's eyes begin to droop, sleep threatening to overcome her.

"I've never seen you smile."

The corner of Jon's mouth pulls into a lopsided smirk, but he doesn't open his eyes. That brow quirks again.

"Perhaps you've never given me cause to."

"You wound me, Snow. Tell me a story.”

“A story?”

“Yes. So I can sleep.”

“Aye. What kind of story?” 

“Tell me about yourself. How you came to be such a good swordsman, how you came to work for the King, your family…”

“So you can snipe and call me a bastard?” he narrows his dark eyes, a harder edge to his voice.

She pauses for a moment, taken aback by his vitriol.

“Not at all,” Sansa replies easily, quirking a brow, “I ask only to know you better.”

Jon shifts in his chair, arms still crossed over his chest but seemingly placated for now.

She raises her brows, looking at him expectantly. “Are you always this bad tempered?”

“So I’ve been told.”

“By whom?” She pushes again.

“Lady Sansa.” He says shortly, with an air of finality, “My father was a drunk, my mother was a whore. That’s all there is.”

“But not all _you_ are,” Sansa adds, head tipped to the side.

He stares at her for a moment, face half cloaked in darkness. She can’t work out his expression, but he doesn’t seem so angry anymore.

She thinks about how they were both shipped off without a choice. She thinks how he never chose to link his life with hers, just as she never chose to marry Joffrey – then she thinks they’re not so different after-all.

"Sleep, Princess,” he says after a beat, “I’ll be right outside.”

Sansa yawns, body thrumming warm and tired.

For once, she obeys his command.

 

 

 

“Forgive me, my lady,” Sansa’s wandering the gardens when Ser Baelish rushes towards her, apology already falling from his mouth, “but the King is indisposed. He has asked me to come in his stead.”

Sansa frowns, a petulant pout forming on her lips, as she fights back her rising disappointment. She tries not to take Joffrey’s seeming lack of interest in her personally, but it’s hard to do so when he makes every effort to avoid her.

Just as Joffrey ignores _her_ , Ser Baelish ignores her guard as he lifts her hand to kiss it. His lips are slimy on her skin, his eyes glinting something sinister, and she fights the urge to pull it away.

She feels Jon bristle next to her.

“You must forgive me once more,” Ser Baelish laughs, “I have not even introduced myself! I am Lord Baelish, one of the King’s most trusted advisors. But you may call me Petyr… all the beautiful ladies do.”

If he’s trying to be charming, it’s lost on Sansa. It seems lost on Jon too. Her eyes flit to him and she watches that muscle in his cheek tick as he clenches his jaw.

“Sansa Stark,” she nods politely, “this is my… guard, Jon Snow.”

Baelish’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly before he plasters an obviously false smile on his face.

“We’ve met.” Jon says, his voice even.

Sansa doesn’t reply, unsure of what to say. Clearly Baelish is uncomfortable with long silences, because he’s taking her arm and chattering again within moments.

Sansa lets herself be led but her gaze narrows suspiciously.

“How are you enjoying Kings Landing, my dear? It must be quite the change to Winterfell—” Baelish suddenly stops in his tracks, his head turning to Jon who stands a few steps behind, “—you may leave us, Snow. The lady is quite safe with me.”

Jon clicks his tongue, a small shrug in his shoulders.

“Apologies, my Lord,” he says, not sounding sorry in the slightest, “Afraid I can’t. King’s orders an’ all.”

Sansa’s brows rise to her hairline.

The King has never ordered Jon to guard her in the presence of his own advisors. He’s become like her shadow, constantly in the corner of her eye, like when eyelashes stick together, but he often retreats when she’s left with the King or someone he trusts.  

There’s something menacing about Petyr Baelish and Jon knows it.

Baelish’s jaw clenches in irritation but he doesn’t push the issue. The thick tension between the men is so palpable, Sansa thinks she might choke on it. For the first (but not the last) time, she wonders about their history.

She walks ahead, Baelish’s grip tight as a vice around her elbow.

“You said the King is indisposed?” She asks, feeling the need to change the subject.

“Yes, I understand he was to join you for a walk around the gardens. However, an important matter of state has unfortunately cropped up. Thus, I am to ask how your days are faring.”

“If it is an important matter of state, shouldn’t _you_ be there?” Sansa asks, remembering how he introduced himself as one of the King’s _most trusted_ advisors.

Baelish’s lips pull into a tense smile. “You are just as direct as I’ve been told, my lady.”

It doesn’t feel like a compliment.

“I just think it would be nice to _see_ my betrothed now and then,” she sulks, her lips forming into a small pout. Baelish’s grip tightens around her elbow, almost like a silent warning, and out of the corner of her eye, she notices how Jon’s hand seems to hover over the sword at his side.

“It is not wise to criticise your King, Princess,” Baelish stops and turns them, placing his hands on her shoulders. He leans down, his smile eerie and strange and fake. His tone is pleasant, but it hints at dark intent, “you will soon be Queen – and a Queen should know her place.”

Jon tuts, clicking his tongue again. His clasps his hands behind his back, his head tipping to the side and his dark eyes narrowing.

“I do hope that wasn’t a threat, Lord Baelish.”

Baelish pauses for a moment, locking eyes with him, before a bright smile flashes over his features.

“Of course not,” he replies, but his eyes are on Sansa, “I would never dream of uttering a bad word against the Princess. Especially considering the love I had – and continue to have – for Lady Catelyn.”

The air seems to thin and there’s a sudden ache in Sansa’s chest.

“You knew my mother?” She asks, desperate for any trace of her. Sometimes she misses her so much, it makes her panic.

“Oh yes, very well. I’m afraid she broke my poor heart.” Baelish chuckles, “You are so very like her…” he lifts his hand to caress her cheek and that fierce glint to Jon’s eye is back, “But dare I say… even more beautiful.”

“Littlefinger,” Jon’s voice is harsh and final, his severe brogue even deeper than usual as he barks out a name Sansa’s never heard before, “That’s enough, don’t you think? I don’t fancy the King would appreciate your hands on her – and I’m sure he’s expecting you.”

Sansa opens her mouth to protest, desperate as she is for any scraps of her mother, but Baelish gives a small bow.

“Of course you are right, Snow,” he drawls, “I merely came to check you are well and I see that you are. Good day, Lady Sansa. Come find me soon. We shall speak about your mother until your heart’s content.”

Sansa nods softly, allowing him to kiss her hand once more before he takes his leave, throwing Jon one last, disdainful glance.

She blinks a few times, flustered, before turning to him.

“That was rather rude, don’t you think?”

Jon shrugs, uncaring, as he starts to walk towards the castle.

Sansa rushes after him, hot on his heels.

“Well?” She pushes, lifting the material of her skirts at the thighs so she can move easier.

Jon doesn’t answer again. He just lifts his fingers to his lips and makes a sharp whistling sound.

“Oh, forget about your stupid wolf,” Sansa rolls her eyes, though the words sound wrong on her tongue as she’s rather fond of Ghost, “Answer me.”

“Petyr Baelish is a bastard,” Jon says casually, his eyes scanning the gardens for any sign of his precious direwolf. He had been playing in the grass while his owner was escorting Sansa, before they were rudely interrupted.

“He can’t be that bad if my mother knew him.”  
   
“Aye, she knew him,” he repeats, “doesn't mean she liked him.”

Sansa knows her mother doesn’t suffer fools gladly, so this explanation isn’t good enough for her.

“I wanted to hear more about Joffrey, about my mother. You didn’t have to be so… so…” she struggles to find the words as Ghost finally comes running out of the hedges, bounding excitedly towards his master, “… _you._ ”

“So me?” Jon quirks a brow, almost amused, as he drops to his haunches and scratches Ghost behind the ear.

“Yes!” Sansa exclaims, staring down at him, “Insolent and rude and eugh, _insufferable_.”

He glances up at her, eyes squinting slightly as he continues to stroke Ghost’s fur. Sansa’s not sure whether it’s down to curiosity or just a reaction against the setting sun, but it makes her cheeks burn nonetheless.

“Perhaps that is your problem, _Princess…_ ” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm, “You are so very quick to judge, yet so very slow to understand.”

Sansa’s mouth falls open, an incredulous huff escaping her.

“And you are _rude_!”

“Aye,” Jon murmurs, “you said that already.”

“Well, it’s true! You seem to go out of your way to be difficult. Granted, Lord Baelish seemed… an unusual character… but I’m sure he’s ten times more pleasant to be around than you! Perhaps I should have a word with the King. As a trusted advisor, maybe _he’s_ the one who should have been appointed my protector.”

Jon stands, rising to his full height, and he takes a step towards her until they’re toe to toe. His expression is stone, jaw clenched tight, and Ghost hovers at his side. Sansa matches his stance, refusing to back down, and her eyes lock with his.

Dark brown on electric blue, an inexplicable heat flares between them.

“Lord Baelish is a flatterer and a user and a dangerous liar who bends the ear of the King and the King before him in order that terrible acts of injustice may be carried out,” Jon murmurs scornfully and Sansa thinks it’s the most she’s ever heard him speak, “I may not be your friend, but he certainly isn’t either. Get your head out of the clouds, woman. You may not like me, I may not like you, but you will _always_ be safest when with me.”

Sansa feels her cheeks burn, liquid heat pooling in the pit of her belly. She feels strange, like she’s on fire, and she can’t calm the wild racing of her heart.

She tells herself it’s merely anger, anger at Jon Snow’s arrogance, his coldness and his bad temper, but something dormant sparks to life inside her all the same.

“I trust in my beloved Joffrey,” she insists, her sense of loyalty having always been one of her strongest traits, “I trust in the people he appoints.”

Jon’s eyes seem to darken, pupils blown to black, and she _swears_ she sees his gaze momentarily flicker to her mouth before he locks eyes with her again.

“You should leave room to trust in your _own_ mind.”

 _How thoughtful,_ Sansa thinks bitterly, _Jon Snow, the philosopher._

“What did Petyr Baelish do to you?” She asks, more than a little intrigued.

Jon’s eyes seem to flash and his jaw clenches even tighter. He looks angry, impassioned and wild. Her breath catches in her chest and she doesn’t know whether he’s going to kiss her or kill her.

He does neither.

He takes a step back, the question rendering him done with this conversation, and he doesn’t break eye contact as he whistles for Ghost again.

Once the wolf is at his feet, he stares at her for a beat before his hand is on his sword and he’s turning to walk away.

“When will you stop treating me like a child?” Sansa shouts after him.

His response is simple and he doesn’t turn to look at her.

“When you stop acting like one.”


	4. Chapter 4

It’s gone midnight when Sansa gives up on trying to sleep.

She tosses and turns, the crisp sheets tangling around her ankles, before she throws them off with a frustrated grunt.

Images of Winterfell burn behind her eyelids, like a kaleidoscope of memories. She thinks of drawing with Bran and chasing Rickon around the courtyard. She thinks of the lessons father taught her, of listening to Robb and Arya laugh while they duelled and their mother told them to keep it down.

She thinks of her family until it hurts too much and she has to stop.

She closes her eyes once more, dreams of home searing behind her vision, before she gives up and decides to go for a walk to clear her mind.

She wraps a thin robe around herself, grabbing a candle to light the way. She moves slowly, quietly, not wanting to wake her handmaidens. She rarely has time alone, away from prying eyes, and she doesn’t want the bother of trying to explain how she can’t sleep, the inevitable herbs and potions that will be poured down her throat and on her skin to try and help.

She steadies her breathing as she opens her chamber door, grimacing at the tiny creak it makes.

The hallways are quiet, eerily so, and as she walks and holds the candle, Sansa’s hypnotised by the intricate shadows that dance up the stone walls.

She tries to let her mind fall blank, to stop the worries she has about the future from closing in around her. As she walks past rooms she didn’t even know existed, side stepping snoozing guards, it occurs to her that she doesn’t even know where Joffrey’s chambers are.

She doesn’t know anything about him. She doesn’t know what food he likes to eat or what music he likes to play. She doesn’t know if he was close to his father, or if he loves his mother and siblings the way she loves hers.

The little things that make him _him,_ she has no idea.

They’ve been betrothed since before they were even born, yet Sansa doesn’t know her fiancé at all.

She can’t wonder about this for too long, can’t let it overwhelm her, because her reverie is soon broken by a distinct moan.

_“Jon.”_

She freezes outside Jon Snow’s room, her eyes widening. She doesn’t know it’s Jon’s for sure, has never asked where he sleeps after his duties are done for the evening, but the female voice sighing his name through the door is proof enough.

A male grunt joins in with the whimpers and Sansa’s leaving, she’s _going to leave,_ but for some reason, her legs aren’t co-operating.

She hovers outside, leaning against the wall, her chest rising and falling quicker as the woman’s moans of passion begin to build to a climax.

When she almost sobs his name, Sansa places the hand that isn’t holding the candle to her chest. She feels her cheeks burst into heat as her fingers curl around her throat and her heart thumps wildly under her palm. 

Sansa’s young, certainly inexperienced, but she knows enough of the world to understand what’s going on behind the door. She’s overheard her handmaidens giggle as they share their sordid experiences with the palace guards and she’s walked in on Robb too many times to count, refusing to listen to him when he tells her to knock and getting various items of clothing flung in the face for it.

The woman’s moans become heavier and high pitched, punctuated with sharp gasps and the unmistakable sound of a bed squeaking. Sansa’s rooted to the spot as the woman inevitably reaches her peak with a broken cry, Jon’s name falling from her lips like a prayer.

Jon, for the most part, is silent. Sansa can’t hear his voice at all, other than a few quiet, rumbling murmurs from behind the door.

Sansa releases the breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding.

Her hand slips from her chest to her side and she closes her eyes for a moment, trying to settle the butterfly stutter of her heartbeat. For a single, irrational moment, she worries Jon will be able to hear it, beating wildly through the door. 

Her skin blossoms into heat, goosebumps rising to the surface. She feels a dull ache between her thighs and panic blisters her stomach at the unknown sensation. She swallows and her throat burns and she can’t make sense of her body’s foreign reaction.

It spurs her into action and she turns to rush away, _finally,_ when the door opens.

She curses under her breath, trying to merge into the wall.

There’s a brief exchange of words at the door, a quiet giggle from the woman and a husky chuckle from him.

Jon Snow never laughs with her. The emotion he seems to reserve for her is annoyance – and Sansa’s gut flares with irrational jealousy at the sound.

Sinking into the wall, she just catches a glimpse of the woman in question. Obviously she’s beautiful, with flowing red hair and pale, alabaster skin. Her fingers linger for a moment, wrapped around his, before she leaves him in the doorway and rushes down the hall, into the dark.

Sansa thinks she’s safe, thinks she’s gotten away with it, but Jon’s voice stops her in her tracks when she goes to run in the opposite direction.

“Sansa?” he asks, his surprise probably leading him to drop her title.

Sansa grimaces, before turning around slowly.

She holds the candle in-front of her and her breath catches at the sight of him.

He’s leaning against the doorframe. His chest and feet are bare, breeches pulled up sloppily around his waist. He glances at her for a moment before he fiddles with the strings open on his lower belly. His hair is ruffled and, in the candlelight, his skin seems to glow with a thin layer of perspiration.

“Are you okay?” he asks, fingers still on the fastenings of his breeches. He’s far too proud to be ashamed of nudity and his concern seems to override any sense of propriety, “do you need me?”

Sansa catches the double meaning behind the words, even if he doesn’t. Her mouth feel dry, her breath uneven, and an embarrassing heat starts to build under her collar.

“I’m fine,” she manages to get out eventually. She should look away, finish letting him dress, but she just _can’t._ Her eyes roam without her permission, over well-defined muscles and sharp collarbones, back down the line of his throat. She’s never seen so much skin, not on anyone other than her brothers, and her brothers don’t have bodies like _that._

“Lady Sansa?” Jon asks again, remembering her label this time, and her eyes snap to his.

“Sorry. I’m fine,” she repeats, flustered, “I just – I could not sleep so I thought a walk would help. I best get back to my chambers.”

“I’ll escort you,” Jon says, leaning backwards into the room to grab a shirt.

“No!” She blurts out, causing him to quirk a brow, “It’s okay. It’s late and I know the way. I’m sorry again for disturbing you.”

Jon doesn’t reply and the weight of everything left unsaid hangs heavy in the air. It’s awkward for a moment, almost unbearable, before Jon gives a cool nod and Sansa rushes off.

When she lays back down in bed, she still can’t sleep – but visions of her lost family are no longer why.

 

 

 

 

 

The next morning, Sansa finds herself staring into space while her handmaidens rush around her, helping to get her dressed.

“Are you okay, my lady?” Shae asks after an hour of silence, readjusting the bottom of her dress.

Sansa blinks to life, glancing down at her with a smile she hopes looks sincere.

“I’m quite alright thank you, Shae.”

Shae opens her mouth to speak, most likely to further protest, when the chamber door opens and Cersei seems to glide in.  

“Good morning, little bird,” she says quietly, a practiced smile on her face, “I do hope you’re well.”

“I am, your Grace,” Sansa greets with a nod. It’s then that she notices a woman standing beside her and she wracks her brain, thinking her familiar.

After a beat, she recognises her as the woman sneaking out of Jon Snow’s room last night.

She’s even more beautiful in the morning light and a sensation Sansa refuses to recognise as jealousy kicks at her stomach.

She reminds herself that she’s irritated by Jon, that his calm reserve is annoying. She tries to convince herself that the way he challenges her, the way no-one ever has, is insolent, rather than exciting.

“This is Ros,” Cersei introduces her, “she’s just arrived from across the water. She will be joining your ladies.”

Sansa’s insides scream and shout. She wants to say no, wants to be cruel to her and send her away and the worst part is, she doesn’t even know why.

“I look forward to serving you, my lady,” Ros smiles, looking kind and warm and far too beautiful.

Sansa forces a smile. “Thank you, Ros.”

She wants to ask her more.

She wants to ask how she knows Jon. She wants to ask what he looks like when he laughs – _really_ laughs – and how old he is and what his family is like and if he has any hobbies. She wants to know what music he likes and who his friends are and what happened in his past to make him so cold.

She’s jealous of all the parts of him she doesn’t get to see. She’s jealous Ros gets to be close to him without getting burned.

She can’t ask any of these things because Cersei is gesturing for her to follow her to the balcony. Sansa obeys, settling in at the table while Shae and the other handmaidens provide food and drink for breakfast.

“I understand my son is still somewhat… distant,” Cersei cuts straight to the chase, raising an expectant eyebrow.

Sansa wrings her hands in her lap, unsure of the best way to approach the situation.

“He is the King. I understand he has his duties,” she keeps her voice positive, even.

“Yes, he does,” Cersei agrees, though her tone isn’t particularly kind, “He is still young. Still learning. He must surround himself with good influences. Those who will lead him down the right path.”

Sansa nods, unsure of what she’s getting at.

“I understand, your Grace. I hope to be one of those positive influences.”

“I’m sure you do,” Cersei sighs, running the tip of her finger along the edge of her goblet, “Your role as Queen will not be easy, my child. There will be decisions you do not agree with, decisions made more by his advisors than Joffrey himself.”

 _Lord Baelish is a flatterer and a user and a dangerous liar who bends the ear of the King so that terrible acts of injustice can be carried out,_ Jon’s words echo in her mind.

“Like Lord Baelish?” Sansa’s asking before she even realises it.

A brief expression of surprise flits across Cersei’s features.

“Yes. Lord Baelish is a very important member of court,” she says, though her tone is hardly reverential.

“Forgive me, but... I sensed some… _tension_ between him and my guard,” Sansa can’t help herself from asking, the curiosity killing her.

The corners of Cersei’s lips twitch into a sardonic smile and she picks at a bread roll Shae places on the table.

“Yes, I suppose you would,” she pops a grape in her mouth, “given his role in the battle against the wildlings.”

Sansa’s brows pull into a frown. The word “wildling” sounds familiar, but she can’t place why.

“The wildlings?”

“The wildlings lived beyond the wall, men and women who did not recognise the politics or kings or rules of the Seven Kingdoms,” Cersei informs, “Lord Baelish thought them a dangerous threat, so he had our army destroy them all. It had to be done, Sansa. For the good of the Kingdom, no-one can threaten Joffrey’s rule.”

Sansa swallows the bitterness that rises as bile from the back of her throat.

“But if it had to be done… why is my guard so unsympathetic towards it?”

Cersei gives a dramatic sigh, quirking a brow.

“Snow was in love with one of them. A wild girl with auburn hair, I believe,” she says evenly, like the whole subject is very boring to her, “took the whole thing rather hard.”

Sansa blinks, trying to keep the surprise from her expression. She thinks of Jon in love, how special this girl must have been, for him to so clearly still carry her ghost with him. She thinks and thinks, until her mind spins.

Now she feels nothing and everything, all at once.

“I see,” she says, trying to not give anything away, “thank you, your Grace.”

Cersei stares at her for a beat, expression unreadable. Sansa fights the urge to shrink, feeling very much like an insect under a magnifying glass.

Eventually she stands, running a finger along the surface of the table until she reaches Sansa.

“Be careful, little bird. Joffrey has never been one to share his toys…” she murmurs, before her eyes flicker to Ros and back to her. She reaches out for a strand of her hair, twirling it between her fingers, “…and we all know Jon Snow is partial to a redhead.”  

Their eyes lock and something unspoken passes between them.

Sansa suddenly isn’t hungry anymore.

 

 

 

 

 

“Thank you for the invitation, your Grace,” Sansa says when she finds herself sitting next to Joffrey at a jousting tournament a few days later.

Joffrey’s chest seems to puff with pride.

“This is my most favourite past time,” he informs, buzzing with excited energy. Sansa can’t help but smile, happy to finally be experiencing a deeper side of him.

“I am most excited,” she says, sending him one more smile before she turns her eyes back to the field, “I have never seen a joust.”

From where he stands next to her throne, hand resting on the sword on his side, she can see Jon’s subtle smirk out of the corner of her eye. She does her best to ignore him, determined to get him out of her mind, to connect with her betrothed.

“Will they be very hurt?” She asks when the competitors ride out onto the field and the crowd erupts into applause.

She _definitely_ ignores Jon’s eye roll at her question.

The men ride towards them, silver armour shining striking and impressive in the afternoon sun, as one bows to Joffrey and the other extends a flower to her.

She accepts it gratefully, a gesture of good will, and lets out a happy giggle as they ride away.

“With any luck,” Joffrey finally answers her question, a strange glint to his eye.

Sansa stares at him for a moment, the smile slipping from her face. She can’t wonder about it for too long though, because the joust is about to begin. She plasters the smile back on and returns her attention to the battle.

Joffrey leans forward in his seat, eyes shining wild and excited.

Sansa follows suit, finding his exhilaration infectious.

Suddenly there’s a hand on her shoulder, strong and warm. Electricity sparks from where they touch and her eyes dart to Jon, puzzled.

He’s staring down at her, expression stone.

“Don’t look away,” he warns, hand tightening on her shoulder.

Sansa stares at him for a beat before rolling her eyes and shrugging off his touch.

The joust begins, thunderous hooves kicking up sand and dirt and joining the sound of the uproarious crowd. Sansa holds her breath as the men race towards each other, lances pointed at the ready. At the first try, they just miss each other, the crowd releasing a collective, delighted laugh.

On the second try, however, they don’t miss.

Sansa’s eyes widen as they strike each other, one knight’s lance going straight through the other’s neck with a sickening crunch. Joffrey smacks his thigh, thrilled, as he jumps up and claps wildly. The knight slumps off his horse and Sansa tries to remember Jon’s words -  _don’t look away -_ when she sees the blood and muscle and sinew of his neck.

As the knight splutters and chokes on his own blood, she feels a wave of nausea hit her. The air seems to thin, the corners of the world crowding inwards, until her vision becomes hazy and she feels like she might faint.

Her body moves on autopilot. She doesn’t think. She just jumps from her seat and runs.

The last thing she hears is Joffrey’s furious voice, snapping at Jon to follow her and bring her back.

She runs until she turns a corner, leaning a hand against the castle wall. She closes her eyes and tries to forget the images searing behind her vision, her breaths coming short and fast.

She’s only alone for a few minutes before Jon finds her, as she knew he would.

“You’ve only made it harder for yourself,” he says blankly, all matter of fact.  

Her head snaps up and she stares daggers at him.

“Go away,” she snarls.

“Well,” he shrugs, taking a step towards her, “you should know by now _that_ never works.”

She releases a bitter laugh, running a shaky hand through her hair.

“He killed him…” she whispers, like she can’t believe the words, “Joffrey _liked_ it. He enjoyed it.”

Jon’s expression is calm and composed as he takes another step towards her.

“It’s just a sport.”

“A sport?” Sansa repeats incredulously, “Watching men murder each other? I don’t like it.”

It’s Jon’s turn to laugh now, but there’s no humour in it.

“You don’t _like_ it?” he repeats acerbically, “Is the fairy-tale becoming a bit too real for you, Princess?”

“I am _not_ living in a fairy-tale,” she bites back angrily, “I’m not the naïve little girl you think I am.”

“Really?”

“Really!” She raises her voice, “I know my duty, I know my place. But I am allowed to question it sometimes. Besides, who are you to judge me? You have the nerve to criticise me for not thinking for myself, for not trusting my own mind, when _you_ are the one who’s sticking around here when you don't believe in it.”

Jon walks until he’s standing right in-front of her, her back against the castle wall.

“What are you talking about?”

“Where were your values, your principles, when the King ordered the wildlings murdered?” She asks venomously.

Something dark flashes through his eyes and for a moment, just a moment, Sansa’s afraid of him.

“Who told you that?” he asks quietly.

Sansa swallows past the lump in her throat. “It doesn’t matter.”

“You shouldn’t comment on things you know nothing about.”

“So what gives you the right to comment on me?” She fires back, “you do not know me.”

“Oh, I know you…” Jon replies and one hand comes out to rest against the wall beside her head, “I know you better than you think, because we are not so unlike. We both swore oaths, are both bound by duty. Our lives are not our own. We are not free to want what we want.”

 _Who we want,_ his words seem to say, and he extends his other arm so he’s caging her in.

She feels him everywhere. She’s surrounded by him. She holds her breath and feels his warmth, the heat of his body, the brush of his breath across her lips.

As if drawn by gravity, her eyes fall to his mouth.

She feels dizzy, almost drunk, and his eyes seem to flicker between her own and her lips.

“You frustrate me,” he murmurs eventually, voice even and quiet.

Everything burns, everything pulses hotter and brighter than before and Sansa’s hypnotised.

“The feeling’s mutual.”

Their eyes lock and her mouth feels dry and she _swears_ he leans in slightly, before he thinks better of it and pulls away. He’s still caging her in, still surrounding her, and it’s not something exciting, but something paralysing – like when all the air’s been sucked out of the room and you can’t breathe.

The tell-tale noise of approaching guards brings them back to reality with a sickening crunch.

He pulls away and she wants to pull him right back.

When they return to the joust, Sansa tries not to shrink under Joffrey’s scolding gaze. She forces herself to watch this time and when it becomes too much, she looks to Jon and feels safe.

And that makes her feel more scared than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the interest in this! I hope you don't mind the (kinda) slow burn, things are definitely... warming up in the next chapter. I literally have no idea where I'm going with this but I'm having fun with it....


	5. Chapter 5

"Mother insists we hold a dance," Joffrey is saying, "to formally celebrate our engagement."

Sansa nods politely, hands clasped behind her back. It's a particularly warm morning, the sun shining bright over the gardens, and the cool air calms her frayed nerves.

"I think that's a splendid idea."

Joffrey nods shortly.

"I trust you not to make a spectacle of yourself," his voice is light and he doesn't look at her, but the threat is clear nonetheless, "like you did at the joust."

Sansa swallows, eyes flitting to him. He still doesn't return her gaze, so she stares straight ahead again.

"I'm sorry, your Grace," she says for what feels like the hundredth time, "that won't happen again."

"Girls are so weak," he mutters scornfully.

She wants to protest. She wants to remind him of how she left her entire family behind in the name of duty. She wants to say she heard the way Mother screamed when she brought Arya into the world and how she did it twice more after that. She wants to say she's seen how  _he_  cowers behind his family and name.

She wants to say women are not weak at all.

Of course, she says none of these things. She merely carries on, her excitement for her upcoming nuptials fading a little more each day. She feels like she's suffocating, tiny shards of herself splintering away the further she travels from Winterfell. Soon, she wonders whether there'll be anything left.

"Festivities are in order for another reason," Joffrey is continuing, "we will be making an announcement."

They stop walking for a moment and Sansa glances at him, curiosity piqued.

"What may that be, your Grace? If you don't mind me asking."

"My advisors and my grandfather have come up with a way to strengthen the bond between our families even more," he starts, turning so they're facing each other, "it will be beneficial to the both of us."

Sansa's brows pull into a frown, confusion written over her features.

"I apologise, your Grace, but I don't understand."

Joffrey's eyes flash with something akin to frustration.

"Just as you and I will marry, so too will your brother Robb marry my sister Myrcella. Thus, House Stark and House Baratheon's dominion over  _both_  Kings Landing and Winterfell will be complete."

Sansa's eyes widen, her words caught in her throat. She doesn't know what to say, how to react at all, so she turns and starts walking again. As she's thinking, calculating her next move, Joffrey walks beside her and carries on.

"My sister is very beautiful," he says, like that matters.

"She's very  _young_ ," Sansa counters, thinking of the little Baratheon’s child-like smile, golden curls and bright blue eyes. She will be a beautiful woman, Sansa's sure of it, but she's also sure that Robb's coming up to nineteen and Myrcella hasn't even bled yet.

She knows her brother. She knows that he's kind and strong and honourable. He won't appreciate being mated like cattle, especially to a girl younger than his sisters.

"Why should that matter?" Joffrey shrugs easily, "it's not as though we're going to marry them right away. We will wait until Myrcella has bled... if the Young Wolf  _can_  wait that long that is."

He gives a vulgar chuckle, glancing at her like he expects her to laugh.

"My brother is very loyal," she says evenly instead, "I am sure he will do his duty."

"Hardly a terrible duty," Joffrey rolls his eyes disdainfully, "Land and titles and a Princess for a wife. What  _is_  this obsession with wolves anyway? I wonder, does he _howl_ when he...  _you know?_ " He laughs again, this time mocking and bordering on cruel, and Sansa's stomach churns.

She’s not a prude, but a chill crawls over her skin. She's heard rumours about the Lannister’s, but the Starks are certainly not that way inclined, and this is hardly a conversation she wishes to have about her brother.

“I could not comment, your Grace.”

Her voice is composed, dry, as they turn a corner and reach the high walls of the palace.

“Well, I’ve sent word for Robb to travel from Winterfell. The ball will take place in two days’ time, once he arrives. There, I will deliver the good news.”

Sansa’s heart swells with joy, delighted as she is to see Robb again.

She misses him too badly to feel sorry for him.

Besides, she’s sure he will grow to love Myrcella as much as she will grow to love Joffrey.

 _It just hasn’t happened quite yet,_ she reassures herself. She just needs more time. She sends the King another smile as he escorts her inside the palace.

She tries to stop feeling like she’s walking into battle.

Even though she is.

 

 

 

 

 

“Who is that?” Sansa asks Jon that afternoon, tipping her head out the window as they venture into town for the first time since her arrival.

 

Jon tilts his head, following her eye-line.  

He finds who she’s referring to, a large man with a scarred face, walking alongside the King’s carriage in-front.

“Sandor Clegane,” Jon answers, Sansa barely able to hear him above the bustling crowd, “one of the Kingsguard. They call him the Hound.”

“Why?”

Jon gives an easy shrug.

“He’s fierce, a true fighter,” he says, “and his obedience to his master is unquestioning.”

“To Joffrey, you mean?”

“Aye,” there’s that shrug again, “to Joffrey, to King Robert before him…”

Sansa turns her attention back to the crowd outside, trying to enjoy the waves and cheers. She remembers what her father always said, how it was easy to be a feared ruler, but much harder to be a loved one. Sansa wants that. She wants to be strong and respected and loved – and she wants this for her King too.

She wants him to be warm and happy and better than he is. She wants—

An apple suddenly comes flying through the air, hitting the King’s carriage and snapping her out of her fantasy.

Her own carriage swerves sharply and she hears the _swish_ of Jon’s sword as he unsheathes it. There’s commotion, uproar, and she blinks through the chaos to find a young boy crying.

The newly introduced Sandor Clegane has him by the throat, lifted so high his feet dangle far above the ground. Across the muddy street, another boy around the same age stares at them, wearing a matching expression of fear.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeats over and over, voice choked both by his tears and the grip around his neck, “I was throwing it to my friend, I’m sorry, I’m—”

As the Hound practically growls in the young boy’s terrified face, Sansa’s blood boils under her skin. She feels her anger rise, colouring her cheeks, until her body’s moving without her mind’s permission.

She swings open the carriage door, pushes past a surprised Jon and heads straight for Clegane.

“What on Earth do you think you’re doing?” She exclaims, ignoring the dozens of stunned faces gaping at her.

Her furious gaze flits to Joffrey, where he’s sitting steadfast in his carriage. He stares back at her, face impassive, as she works herself into a rage.

Thankfully for her own sake, she’s able to bite back her reprimands when it comes to his cowardice.

“Let go of him!” She storms over to them and grabs the Hound’s wrist, trying to pull it from the boy’s neck. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t budge. He just growls down at her, teeth bared and eyes glinting dark.

She tries again, but Jon’s behind her in a flash, curling an arm around her waist and pulling her back.

“Stop it, Sansa,” he growls hot in her ear, pulling her flush against his body.

“I will when he lets him go!” She repeats angrily, thrashing against his vice-like grip. Her strength is no match for his and her limbs scream in protest, yet she refuses to give up.

“Get that woman under control, Snow,” Sandor sneers, voice low and gruff, “this little shit threatened the King.”

“With an _apple_ ,” Sansa rolls her eyes, “how very tough you are.”

“Mind your tongue, bitch.” He spits, but his grip is loosening slightly around the boy’s neck.

“Clegane,” Jon snaps, “watch yourself. Do I need to remind you she is the King’s fiancé?”

“No,” Sandor’s top lip curls into a snarl, his dark eyes flickering to the strong arm still caging Sansa against Jon’s body, “you do not need to remind _me_ of that.”

The atmosphere blisters awkwardly, hanging heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid. Sansa swallows, gripping Jon’s forearm and removing it from her body. He lets her. He takes a step back and stares straight ahead, his jaw clenched in a strong line.

Sansa and Clegane are stuck in a stalemate, neither wishing to look away, when Joffrey clears his throat.

“That’s enough,” he says from where he sits, still safely inside his carriage. He looks at her with an expression she can’t quite put her finger on, but it seems lined with curiosity, “let’s carry on.”

He sits back in his chair and taps the side of the carriage, a sign he wishes to continue with the journey.

Clegane grumbles before letting go of the young boy, who quickly scurries away. Jon gives Sansa a cool nod, gesturing towards her own carriage.

As she climbs in, she notices the crowd staring at her. They look astonished, reverent and in awe. There’s so much injustice in this place, so much pain, she feels more determined than ever to rule with a kind heart.

The horses kick their hooves, and Sansa watches a flock of birds take flight from a nearby tree.

 

 

 

 

 

Sansa paces the length of her room, her stomach cramping in painful anxiety.

From her chambers, she can hear the ball already in full swing, and she knows Robb will be waiting for her.

To see him again… to touch him and laugh with him and be with him, _finally…_ this was all she wanted… and yet she can’t move. She can’t get her body to co-operate.

She’s already sent all her handmaidens away, some to the ball and some to the servant chambers. She regrets that now. Her corset is too tight and she can’t _breathe_ and there’s no-one to loosen it.

She’s just about to scream, to claw at her stomach and rip the damn thing off her, when there’s a knock on her door.

“Princess,” Jon Snow’s rough brogue seems to float through the wood, “it’s time to go. They will all be waiting for you.”

“I can’t,” she bites back, just loud enough for him to hear her.

 “You can,” he says simply.

She takes a deep breath before swinging open the door. Jon stands on the other side, looking smart and well-groomed and more handsome than she’s ever seen him.

She stands rigid, biting her lip and turning her face away.

“You look nice,” he says after a while, voice impassive as he extends an arm.

Her gaze flits back to him before she rolls her eyes.

“High praise indeed,” she mutters before taking his arm. They begin to walk the halls, steps slow and calculated.

“Ah, I suppose you want all that fancy talk?” he continues in a transparent attempt to distract her, “your hair burning brighter than dragonfire, eyes bluer than the ocean between Kingdoms…”

Sansa can’t help the small smirk that pulls at the corner of her lips.

“You are no poet, Jon Snow.”

“Aye, that I’m not,” he agrees smoothly, the calmness about his aura relaxing her.

By the time they reach the hall, her nerves have somewhat subsided.

“What if he’s angry at me?” She blurts out when they stand before the high doors.

Jon turns to look at her. “Who?”

“Robb.”

“Why would he be?”

Sansa shrugs. “It’s _my_ future husband forcing him into marriage. He won’t like it.”

“I don’t know your brother well,” he starts, “but from what I’ve heard, he’s a good man. Honourable. I am sure he will just be pleased to see you.”

Sansa nods, letting go of his arm and smoothing the invisible wrinkles in her blood red dress.

“Should _I_ be angry with the King? Should I hate him?”

Jon’s expression is serious as he looks down at her.

“If I were you...” he starts, “I’d try very hard not to.”

Sansa stares at him for a beat before she nods and the great doors open.

 

 

 

 

 

Sansa doesn’t know whether she’s laughing or crying when Robb finally rushes towards her.  

“I’ve missed you so much,” she whispers in his ear. His embrace is fierce and warm and tight and _Robb…_ and she fights back tears. She buries her face in his neck, hands gripping at his furs like she’s scared he’ll fall away, slip through her fingers again and vanish into the dark.

Finally, he pulls back and holds her at arm’s length. His eyes travel the length of her and his smile is as warm as she remembers.

“I’ve missed you too. We all have.”

Her gaze finds Joffrey, slumped on the Iron Throne. Tywin and Cersei stand next to him, locked in what looks like a serious conversation, while Tyrion and her handmaiden Shae twirl around in a dance.

“Too much wine already?” Sansa asks Robb, gesturing to the King.

Robb’s expression twists into a scowl.

“It seems the apple does not fall too far from the tree,” he references the late King Robert, Joffrey’s drunkard father (she refuses to pay attention to the disgusting rumours surrounding the Baratheon children’s heritage).

Sansa forces a smile and her reply dies on her lips when she catches sight of the young Myrcella, standing nervously in the corner of the room.

Robb follows Sansa’s eye-line and she watches his expression soften.

“I trust you’ve been informed then,” she says quietly.

He turns to face her and she knows him well enough to detect the unsureness in his smile.

“I have,” he murmurs, “Father always said he’d make good matches for us, didn’t he?”

 _When you’re old enough, I will make you a match with someone who is worthy of you,_ Ned Stark’s kind voice echoes in her mind, _someone brave and gentle and strong._

“Do you think this is a good match?” Sansa asks and she’s not sure that she’s talking about Myrcella at all.

“It’s what has to be done,” he dodges the question, “for the good of our families.”

Sansa nods; she doesn’t need to be told this.

“Myrcella is beautiful,” she tries to reassure him, “she is young, but she has a good heart. I can tell that much already.”

“I’m sure you are right,” Robb squeezes her hand, but he doesn’t look convinced, “what about you? When he is sober, how are you finding your betrothed?” 

Sansa hesitates for a moment, eyes flickering around the crowded room. She thinks about how little time she has spent with Joffrey, how she barely knows him at all. She thinks about the poor effort he’s made, how he seems more irritated by her presence than anything else and how his temper changes with the moon and tide and she can’t keep up.

As he waits for her response, she also thinks about her brother. She considers how fiercely protective he is, how if he knew she was unsure of her decision – even for a moment – he would drag her kicking and screaming back to Winterfell, every inch as wild as his precious direwolf.

Sansa is not so impulsive, so reckless. She knows there are bigger issues at stake, bigger than those troublesome words at the back of mind, telling her something is wrong. She forces herself to drown them out, plastering a smile on her face.

“There is still much to learn about him,” she settles for this, “but I am eager to become his Queen. I believe there is real good to be done here.”

“You are better than me, Sansa,” Robb says softly, cradling her face, “better than the rest of us.”

She leans into his touch, smiling against the palm of his hand.

“It will be okay,” he seems to read her expression, looking kind and concerned and older than his eighteen years, “You know that, don’t you?”

He smiles again and Sansa doesn’t know how he knew, but she really needed to hear that.

Sometimes, she thinks, everyone just needs to hear that.

 

 

 

 

 

An hour and 3 cups of wine later, Sansa’s finally enjoying herself.

Joffrey has risen, seemingly refreshed by his drunken nap, and she sits beside him on her own throne. As the hall fills with music and laughter, she thinks she could get used to this after-all.

Jon stands guard beside her, calm and still, while Ros fusses with a strand of hair that’s come loose from her elegant up-do.

“It’s okay, Ros,” Sansa bats her hand away, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. She understands it’s only the handmaiden’s job, but her head is starting to ache from the various directions in which her locks are being tugged and pulled.

“Sorry, my lady, it’s just…” Ros grunts in frustration, “…this stubborn strand won’t stay in place and it looks messy.”

“It looks fine,” Jon mutters under his breath, just loud enough so they can hear him, keeping his gaze ahead, “stop fussing, woman.”

She pauses, slowly standing to resume her position. From the corner of her eye, Sansa sees her throw him a disgruntled look. She burns under the heat of her gaze as her eyes flicker from her to Jon and back again, and if she didn’t know better, Sansa would swear she could detect a hint of jealousy.

“Are you alright, Princess?” Joffrey asks, sensing the tension and leaning over his own throne.

Sansa smiles brightly. “Perfect, your Grace. The festivities are wonderful. Thank you for organising them.”

Joffrey waves a dismissive hand and Sansa can’t say anything else, because an attractive young woman in an emerald dress is approaching the throne.

“Lady Tyrell,” Joffrey greets, clearly already acquainted, as the woman gives a delicate curtsey.

“Your Grace,” she nods, before turning her attention to Sansa, “Lady Sansa.”

As the woman continues to smile – far too flirtatiously, for Sansa’s taste – Jon leans down.

“Lady Margaery of House Tyrell,” he whispers in her ear before resuming his position at the nod of her head.

“Your Grace, I would like to thank you for inviting me to such a splendid occasion,” Margaery begins, a mischievous glint in her eye, “though it wounds me so that I am not the lady who will receive your affections. I wonder whether you would take pity on me and ease my broken heart with a dance?”

Sansa fights the urge to roll her eyes at the woman’s pitiful attempt at teasing banter. Joffrey, however, seems to practically light up at the praise, his ego sufficiently stroked.

“If my Princess would allow it, of course,” he chuckles, a devious smirk curling his lips.

Sansa’s gaze flits between them and she’s surprised not to feel even a flicker of jealousy at the thought. _That’s only because you’re so mature,_ she reminds herself, _because your relationship shall be noble and strong and unwavering. Queens have no time for petty emotions such as jealousy._

“Perhaps the Princess’s guard can take your place,” Ros pipes up, her voice lined with false innocence. Sansa’s not sure what she’s playing at. Jon’s dark gaze snaps to the servant and Sansa sees that muscle in his jaw clench, “save her from the terrible boredom of sitting here all alone.”

“Marvellous idea!” Joffrey exclaims, standing up and extending his hand to Margaery, “let’s hope you are as good at dancing as you are in battle, Snow. She is precious cargo, after all.”

Giddy on attention and wine, Joffrey’s made it clear what he wants and Sansa knows better than to argue. Clearly Jon does too, because with an almost undetectable exhale, he extends his own hand and she takes it.

His fingers burn where they touch her skin and she bites back a gasp.

Silence stretches between them, long and ugly, as they follow Joffrey and Margaery to the centre of the room. Jon lets go of her hand so she can stand in-front of him and they bow along with the rest, signalling the beginning of the dance.

She lifts her chin, expression solemn as she stares at him and he stares right back. Their eyes lock, dark on light, and it’s not something exciting, but something paralysing and Sansa’s gut turns to stone.

The music strikes up a more intimate tune, a slower tempo, and she waits for him to lead her.

She feels unbalanced, out of her depth, and she hopes he won’t use it against her. Something delicate, something significant, is unfolding between them and if he moves too fast, too quickly, it’ll snap. He doesn’t. He takes a slow step forward, never dropping her gaze, and lifts his hand. Sansa follows, lifting her own, and they encircle each other, never quite touching palms and never breaking eye contact.

Time gapes between them, a yawning chasm, before he finally circles an arm around her waist and pulls her tight into his body.

“Trust me,” he murmurs at her sharp gasp.

She wants to.

Nerves lit, she lets him lead. He dances like he fights, graceful and sure and smooth and she wants to look away, but she just _can’t._

She can feel his heat, feel his strength, and every atom in her body seems to vibrate at once. Eventually, from behind his shoulder, she catches sight of Ros staring at them, eyes narrowed.

“Your mistress is glaring at us.”

Jon looks down at her, expression impassive, before he returns to looking at a spot just to her right.

“She is not my mistress.”

“I saw her sneaking out of your chambers.”

“Aye,” he mutters, “when you were prying.”

Sansa quirks a brow, unapologetic, “my prying does not diminish her sneaking. Those are still the facts, are they not?”

“The _facts_ are that I can do as I please, Princess,” he says, though his tone isn’t particularly unkind, “and there is little between Ros and I.”

Sansa doesn’t understand that. She doesn’t understand how you can be with someone that way, so intimate and close, and not have it mean something. Not have it mean _everything._

Of course, he already thinks her gullible and naïve so she doesn’t say this. She doesn’t want to give him any more ammunition to treat her like a child.

“Ah,” despite her attempt to be aloof, his brow quirks and his head tips to the side in understanding, “this offends your delicate sensibilities, doesn’t it? That two consenting adults can enjoy each other’s company with it being only physical? You are young.”

The mention of physicality – of physicality with _him -_ causes Sansa’s cheeks to blossom into heat.

“Myrcella is young,” she diverts, tipping her chin to gesture to where Robb is laughing and twirling his bride-to-be, “yet see how my brother looks at her.”

Jon follows her eye-line and notices what she does.

Robb spins the young girl and holds her close. Sansa sees something in him, something she’s never seen before, and this time her gut _does_ flare with jealousy. Not with some sordid, incestuous Lannister-type jealousy, but jealousy for the affection he seems to have so quickly cultivated.

He looks at Myrcella like he could really want her one day, like he could love her.

Joffrey’s never looked at her like that.

“It takes time,” Jon seems to read her mind, “you will have that with the King.”

A bitter, incredulous sigh escapes Sansa’s lips.

Her reaction doesn't seem to surprise him. He just continues to move them, hands electric even through the soft material of her dress. The song switches but Margaery and Joffrey are still dancing, and Jon shows no sign of letting her go.

“ _The King_ thinks I’m weak,” she says eventually.

Jon’s expression is unreadable for a moment as he seems to contemplate something.

“You challenge me at every turn, no matter how irritating that is,” he lets out a humourless laugh, “you miss your family, yet you never complain. You stood up to the Hound. I think you might be the strongest woman I know.”

She notices how he calls her a woman, not a girl, and the atmosphere seems to blister. Now she really can’t breathe.

She has to look away, everything burning too hot, too bright.

“You know nothing, Jon Snow,” she whispers.

She’s teasing, trying to keep things light, but when she glances back at him, it’s the first time she’s ever seen him genuinely unsettled. Something passes over his face, a glimpse of something _real,_ but it’s gone as fast as it appeared.

“What?”

“Nothing. You just…” he shakes his head, as though he needs to bring himself back to reality, “you reminded me of someone.”

She wants to ask who, wants to ask whether it’s the wildling girl he loved before. She wants to ask _more,_ wants to know him, but he’s grown cold and she can feel him retreating.

The song changes again and he lets her go.

He doesn’t wait for her response. There’s a nod and then he’s gone.

She still feels the ghost of his hands on her.

 

 

 

 

 

Once the festivities are over and Joffrey has passed out from too much wine, it falls to Jon to escort Sansa back to her chambers.

As they walk, awkward silence stretching out between them, Sansa feels an irrational anger bubble up inside her.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” She says when the quiet becomes too much.

Jon looks down at her through heavy dark lashes, the candlelight making shadowy hollows under his eyes and in all the right places.  

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” she exclaims, exasperated, “Something. Anything. Your mood swings are making my head hurt.”

He returns his gaze straight ahead and his jaw is locked tight.

“Slow down, at least,” she adds, somewhat breathlessly, as she attempts to keep up with his fast strides. Clearly, he wants to get rid of her, drop her off at her room as quickly as possible. She lifts her skirts and takes off after him, fast as she can in the half-darkness.

She’s just about to reach him when she trips over an uneven slab of stone and falls forward. She hits the ground with a painful thud. 

Before she can get up, there’s a curse and a sharp tug on her arm and she’s on her feet again, rather lopsided.

“You’re okay,” Jon says impassively, and he’s not asking.

Sansa’s eyes and throat burn and she blinks back tears.

“No, it hurts.”

He pauses in-front of her and his shoulders droop like he’s lost a battle.

He turns and walks back to her.

Without warning, he scoops an arm around her waist and hauls her over his shoulder.

“Hey!” She shrieks in surprise, fists battering on his back to little effect.

“Be quiet.”

Her mouth slams shut, knowing she probably shouldn’t draw attention to herself at this hour, and she keeps her jaw clenched until they reach her door. He walks in, closing it with a click, and deposits her on her bed, none too gently.

She lands with an ‘oompf’, blowing a strand of hair out of her face.

He disappears and she hears him fumbling around. When he returns, he’s holding a wet cloth and coming to stand in-front of her on the bed.

“Where does it hurt?”

_Everywhere._

“My knee.”

He nods shortly, before dropping to his knees.

Sansa inhales sharply, her eyes widening.

He considers her for a moment, eyebrow raised, before his hands come out to hover above her knees.  

“Can I…?” He starts, before clearing his throat, “if there’s a cut, it could get infected.”

Sansa swallows, her mouth suddenly dry. She slowly nods and Jon’s fingers pinch the material of her dress at her thighs.

The atmosphere unbearably tense, he gently begins to lift the material. Sansa’s breath catches in her throat as she watches him, her skin blossoming into heat. His face remains unreadable, still, and when the dress is finally hitched around her thighs, she can’t think about how inappropriate this is.

She can’t think at all.

As suspected, there is a cut on her knee, her skin already mottling into a purple bruise, and he dabs at it gently. He cleans the wound, both of them suspended in silence, and Sansa fights to settle her stuttering heartbeat.

It stings when he cleans it, but she bites back the pain and focuses on his face. A thick curl of his raven hair is falling forward and she imagines pushing her fingers into it, moving it back off his face. She wonders what he looks like with it tied up and she wonders if he’s ever worn it that way. Her fingers curl the sheets beside her into fists, determined to keep from touching him.

Eventually, the blood is gone and the wound is clean, yet he lingers.

The air seems to thin and his hands don’t go to her knees this time.

She feels his fingertips dig into the flesh on her inner thighs, scorching and burning in a way she’s never felt before. An embarrassing sound falls from her lips and his fingers press harder, his head bowed.

He lifts his eyes and – _fuck,_ she might be inexperienced, but she knows that look.

She saw it in Robb when he looked at his first love all those years ago, a girl called Talisa who came passing through Winterfell with her family one winter. She saw it in Theon, the day she grew into her adult body and they went skinny dipping in the river. She’s seen it in the forbidden glances Ser Jaime and Cersei send each other when they think no-one’s looking.

It’s desire, full of frustration and want – only this time it’s magnified, burning out of control and painful.

He leans back, sitting on his heels, clearly deciding to put an end to this. He sends her a tense smile and claps a hand on the outside of each of her knees.

“There. All better.”

Sansa knows she should let him get up, let him walk away from this, but she _can’t._ She can’t just let him leave. Her hands reach out and close over his, curled part way around her knees. The smile slips from his face and his eyes meet hers, dark and intense.

He squeezes his eyes shut and turns his face away. His jaw is locked tight and he looks like he’s trying to reel himself in.

Sansa doesn’t want him to.

Maybe he doesn’t want to either because he hasn’t moved. In-fact, he’s leaning forward a little, as though a magnet draws him in. She keeps heated eye contact as her dress pulls up even further until his fingers are on her bare, hot skin.

She shifts and parts her legs slightly.

“No,” he says quietly, but he doesn’t move.

“Yes,” she replies, because it’s all she can think to say.

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

Then she’s gripping at his furs and pulling him closer. He lets out a grunt and then he’s _there,_ up on his knees, between her parted thighs. Pupils blown to black, his eyes flicker from hers to her mouth and back again. Agonisingly slow.

Tomorrow, she won’t remember who moved first.

All she will remember is the world pausing for one solitary second… before their mouths brush against each other.

Jon lets out a shaky exhale through his nose the moment they connect and she breathes it in, so hot it feels like she’s burning.

Every nerve ending in her body seems to fire at once. His hands push her dress up even further, his head slanting to kiss her deeper, as her knees spread and he moves between them, pulling her flush against his body.

She pants into his mouth as his fingers dig into her waist. Then those hands are everywhere, roaming all over her body, until they come to rest on her face. He angles her head for what he wants, taking advantage of her gasps to slip his tongue into her mouth.

Sansa keens against him, his tongue sparking to life something that’s lain dormant for seventeen years. With every stroke, lust snaps at her heels. It’s hard and desperate; all tongues, teeth, heat and passion, there’s nothing gentle about it. She feels him – all of him – tight against her body.

She feels everything he’s been trying to keep from her, trying to hide.

She spreads her legs wider and he moves even closer, as though he aims to merge them into one. She curls her calves around the back of his thighs, her own thighs gripping his waist and caging him in.

She has to break away from his mouth with a gasp when she feels the entire length of him, hot and heavy, against her. Her dress is hitched around her waist and there’s little material separating them. Her head tips back and he takes advantage, cupping her face with his hand and burying his face in her neck. He plants hot, open mouthed kisses down the length of her flushed skin, his tongue laving the kiss he leaves behind.     

“Jon,” the breathless sigh is out of her mouth before she realises it.

It’s like a bucket of ice water has been tipped over his head.

“Gods,” he bolts up, running a shaky hand through his ruined curls, “I can’t.”

“It’s okay,” Sansa insists shakily, even though it’s not. Her lips are swollen and her dress is still hitched around her waist and she can’t think.

She can’t even _breathe._

“I can’t touch you like that, Sansa,” he rasps, “it’s wrong.”

She doesn’t know what to say. She can only blink, helpless, her skin burning unbearably hot.

It turns out, she doesn’t have to say a thing.

Jon’s gone in a moment, disappearing even quicker than he did at the ball.

Sansa’s left alone, with an unbearable ache between her thighs and an even deeper ache in her chest.

She flops back onto the bed and tries to calm her racing heart.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, my longest chapter yet! hope you liked it. I couldn't resist writing Robb into this, as I do have an obsession with all things Richard Madden... For the purposes of this story, I'm considering the ages of the characters to be a bit different. I'm going with Sansa being 17, Robb 18, Jon around 19, and Myrcella around 15/16.


	6. Chapter 6

Jon paces the hallways for what seems like an eternity, his shoulders tense, every limb like a coiled spring. When walking doesn’t help, he ventures to the gardens to play fetch with Ghost in the moonlight.

When that doesn’t work either, he finally retires to his chambers, knowing there’ll be no sleep tonight.

As soon as he enters, he senses a presence.

He holds his candle up to eye level, the flickering flame dimly illuminating a figure lounging on his bed.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, not altogether kindly.

Ros quirks a brow, a mischievous smirk curling the corners of her lips.

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

Jon’s stony expression doesn’t change. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Mmm, you rarely are these days,” she sighs dramatically, leaning back on her forearms.

He rolls his eyes at her suggestive tone, turning his back to her and walking over to his desk. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant,” she fires back easily.

He places his candle on the surface, the flame casting intricate shadows on the walls. He shuffles the various papers on his desk, rearranging them, anything to keep distracted, to keep busy.

Ros sees straight through him.

 _The taciturn, cold, inimitable Jon Snow,_ she thinks sarcastically, _he is not so hard to read._

She rises from the bed, movements seductive, as she walks towards him. She puts an extra swing in her hips, a sultry glint to her eye. It’s all in vain, it doesn’t matter. He’s not looking at her.

When she reaches him, his body radiating warmth, she hesitates for only a moment before wrapping her arms around him. She rests her cheek against his strong back, closing her eyes as her hands slowly roam his chest.

“No,” he murmurs, so quiet she might have missed it were it not for the small rumble of his chest under her palm.

She doesn’t reply. Her hands travel to the fastening of his cloak and she unclips it, letting it float to the ground. Silently, she removes the rest of his uniform, jealousy and anger and bitterness for what it represents – _who_ it represents – swirling in her gut. It’s only when she gets to his shirt, feeling the soft white linen under her fingers, that he stops her.

Her hands flick open buttons and pull it apart, fingers tracing over light chest hair, before he captures her wrists.

“Stop,” he bites out, voice strained. Her breath quickens, his doesn’t, and she refuses to listen.

She remains silent, the atmosphere stretching heavy and intense between them. Inexplicably, she begins to panic. She can feel him pulling away from her and she tries to stop the little they have from slipping through her fingers. Movements laced with desperation, she wrenches her wrists from his grip and one hand goes straight to his crotch, cupping him firmly through his breeches.

A strangled noise escapes his throat as his hands slam onto the desk in-front of him.

She whispers his name as she squeezes him harder and watches his hands curl into fists on the surface of the desk.    

She rubs his crotch, tiny circular motions, and she wants to cry because he’s not getting hard and it’s the first real, physical confirmation of her worst fear. Suddenly, he lets out a frustrated, animalistic groan and then he’s _there_ , turning in her arms and grabbing her face.

He crashes his mouth to hers, angry and rough. She returns his furious kiss, gasping when he bites her lip hard enough to break the skin. She tastes blood, strong and metallic, and his tongue sweeps against hers.

He turns them, pinning her against the desk, and his mouth sweeps over hers.

She’s never felt him so wild and it’s exciting and passionate and  _all wrong._

It’s not for her.

His hands are everywhere, roaming all over her, like they’re searching for something different. A taller frame, paler skin, bluer eyes and hair a different shade of red. Of course, they don’t find what they’re looking for and it’s over as quickly as it began.

Jon breaks away, lurching his head back and releasing a sigh.

He stares at her for a beat, eyes hooded as his breathing returns to normal, and he doesn’t need to say the words.

“I can’t.”

But she still wants to hear them. “Why?”

His jaw clenches and he looks away.

“I’m tired.”

An incredulous scoff leaves her lips.

“Are you sure there is no other reason?”

He still won't look at her, “Like what?”

“What… or who?”

She lets it hang there for a moment, heavy and significant, before she’s leaving, eyes burning and heart aching at the loss.

As she walks through the halls, she tells herself to get a grip.

After-all, how can you be upset over something you never had?  

 

 

 

 

 

The thing about a kiss, Sansa learns, is that one taste is never enough.

 

She feels Jon Snow for days after. The very touch of him lingers, warming her flesh like the flames that dance in-front of the fireplace, casting shadows up the walls. His touch, his smell, his taste... she's surrounded by him.

Days later and he’s trying to move past it, to pretend it never happened. To pretend that his fingers hadn't dug into the heated flesh of her thighs. That his tongue hadn't curled around hers, sparking to life feelings she never knew existed. That his already black eyes hadn't darkened with lust at the sight of her. That he hadn't parted her legs and moved between them, pressing himself - that part of a male so forbidden to her - against the confusingly damp material at the apex of her thighs.

Jon pretends he's unaffected, but Sansa knows better. She sees him, sees everything he doesn't want her to see.

They walk together through the halls, close but never further apart.

The silence is deafening and Sansa wants to scream.

"Are you really never going to speak to me again?" she finally says instead.

Jon's jaw clenches but still he doesn't look at her.

"What would you like me to say?"

Sansa rolls her eyes, "Something, anything. Haven't we been here before?"

"I just think..." he stops for a moment, briefly closing his eyes before pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. When he opens them again, he looks conflicted and severe and very tired, "...it's for the best if we try to move on. Forget it ever happened. It’s just easier this way."

The words hurt Sansa more than she'd like to admit.

"What if I don't want to forget?" she fires back, her voice more like a hiss as she tries to keep it low, to not draw attention from the knights and handmaidens moving about their business around them, "there is something going on here between the two of us… and you know it."

"Aye," he murmurs with a quirked brow and clenched jaw as he carries on walking, "something infuriating. You think one kiss means the world because of all those silly stories your handmaidens undoubtedly tell. You shouldn't believe everything you hear."

His voice hardens and now she's really hurt.

"No," she says, grabbing his arm and pulling him back. His eyes dart down to where they connect and when they return to her face, she swears they glint a little darker, "you don't lie to me. Ever."

Of all the things she's not sure of anymore - her place in the world, when she'll see her family again, whether she'll ever love Joffrey - she's sure of this.

"No," he murmurs, "I don't."

She stares at him for a beat before letting his arm go.

"So why won't you talk to me? I didn't force myself on you. I didn't  _seduce_ you. You  _wanted_  this. I know you did."

He looks at her again, unreadable. He leans in slightly and this time it's  _his_ hand on the crook of her elbow. 

"You don't know anything," he mutters, breath washing over her lips and eyes flashing something cold. 

Sansa blinks, her own eyes dilating to ice blue.

“Really?” She steps back, wrenching her arm away like he’s burned her, “We’re really back to that?”

“Sansa,” he bites out, “You are a Princess. You are _Joffrey’s_ Princess. Do you have any idea what would happen to you, to _us,_ if he found out what happened the other night? I know you are not as naïve as you seem, so stop acting like it.”

Sansa blinks past the burning in her eyes and throat. She takes another step back from him and tries to look unaffected.

“Right. I’m just a stupid girl with stupid dreams who never learns.”

Something passes over Jon’s face at that, but it’s gone before it can really mean anything.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says and his voice is quieter but just as devastating, “I just – we are who we are… and I don’t want to hurt you.”

Sansa stares at him for a beat, the atmosphere stretching heavy and significant in the widening gap between them.

“What do you call this?”

She asks – and then _she_ walks away from _him._

 

 

 

 

 

“Are you excited for the wedding?” Myrcella asks Sansa a few days later, when they’re walking through the gardens.

 

Sansa plasters a smile on her face and recites her party line.

“I am," as they walk, arm in arm, Sansa gives the younger girl’s forearm a reassuring squeeze, “we shall soon be sisters.”

Myrcella smiles, as warm and bright as the summer’s sun.

“I have always wanted a sister.”

Her happiness is infectious and Sansa finds herself smiling back. However, at the thought of sisters – of Arya -  the smile slips from her face.

“I miss mine very much,” she admits in a quiet voice.

“What was her name?” Myrcella asks.

“Is,” Sansa blurts out without meaning to, “her name _is_ Arya. She’s not gone, she’s just… not here. But she’s kind and smart and the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

“Is she older than you?”

“Sometimes it seems like she is,” Sansa says honestly, “growing up, I envied her. Her strength, her bravery, her independence… she always made me feel very childish. She is younger, but she often seems the oldest of us all.”

Myrcella’s quiet as she tries to process all this.

“Older even than Robb?” she asks almost shyly.

Sansa glances at her and she catches the blush rising up her neck and colouring her cheeks. She feels the corners of her mouth twitch, but she tries to remain neutral, determined not to make fun of the younger girl.

“No, Robb has always taken care of us. He is brave and smart and strong,” she says softly, “he will make a fine husband, Myrcella.”

If it’s possible, Myrcella’s cheeks burst into heat even more.

“I like him very much,” she admits and her voice is so light, so giddy with happiness, Sansa can’t help the jealousy that burns in her gut, “I know it’s only been a few days but I feel… close to him. I think he will keep me safe.”

“Of course he will. He’s the most honourable man I’ve ever met,” as the only man whose sense of honour even comes close, Jon’s face flashes through her mind, and she pushes the image down, “you will always be safe in Winterfell.”

“I can’t wait to leave, to get out,” Myrcella blurts out, then pauses as though she’s caught herself, “I am sure you’ll be happy here, Princess, it’s just… I fear my brother is not as kind as yours…”

She struggles to get her words out, eyes wide and panicked, and Sansa squeezes her arm again.

“It’s okay, Myrcella. I _will_ be happy here. I will grow to love your brother... just as you will grow to love mine.”

“I think I love him already,” Myrcella breathes, stars in her eyes, and Sansa’s skin seems to crawl.

She brushes it off, putting it down to Myrcella’s youth, her inexperience. She tells herself it’s not possible to feel so strongly so soon, that love needs time to cultivate and grow. She tells herself the best love is the kind that is built on strong foundations, not the kind that makes you feel like you can’t breathe, like you’re not walking on solid ground.

It's not  _possible_ to feel so much so soon, so contradictory to reason. 

Jon’s face burns behind her eyelids, taunting her, calling her a liar.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Things fall apart one month before the wedding.

Sansa stares at the letter in her hands, her eyes darting over the ink, so intense it’s as though she’s trying to burn a hole in the parchment. She wants to. She wants to stare so hard the words crawl off the page, flaking apart and flying away. Just so this isn’t happening, isn’t real.

 _The rumours are true,_ the words read, _Joffrey is no Baratheon._

Ned Stark has uncovered a secret set to rip a hole in the world. Sansa sits down on shaky legs and tries to come to terms with the new information; her husband is no King at all, but the result of an incestuous relationship between Queen Cersei and her brother Ser Jaime.

She bites back the wave of sickness that rises from the back of her throat.  

She doesn’t know what to do now, where to turn, and a tiny, dark part of her resents her father for even telling her. Then she reminds herself she’s not a child anymore and her father knows that. Gone are the days of treating her like a fragile doll, a pampered princess who can’t deal with the harsh realities of the world.

Sansa tells herself to grow up, to take a breath and carry on. It turns her stomach, but maybe no-one has to know. They’ll all be safer that way. 

The door opens, so roughly it slams against the marble wall, and there Joffrey stands.

She takes one look at his murderous expression and knows it’s too late.

“Your Grace…” she blurts out, eyes wide and panicked.

Joffrey doesn’t respond. Just to the right of the door, she sees Jon where he stands guard, hand hovering over the sword at his side. He glances at her, brows furrowed in what could be concern, before Joffrey slams the door behind him and Jon is gone. 

Now Sansa’s alone, body thrumming with nervous anticipation. The King has always been unpredictable, emotions changing with rapid frequency, and Sansa doesn’t know which Joffrey stands before her.

“It appears your father has been busy,” he practically snarls, venom dripping from every word.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts out, because it’s all she can think to say.

“You’re sorry?” he repeats incredulously, before barking out a harsh laugh, “Well, that’s alright then, isn’t it Princess? That excuses everything.”

“Of course not,” she stumbles over her words, ”I just… forgive me, I do not know what to say.”

He takes a step closer.

“Do you believe him?”

Sansa swallows past the lump in her throat.

_Yes._

“No.”

“Are you sure about that?” he takes another step, eyes glinting menacingly.

“Yes, your Grace. I am loyal to you. Wholly and completely.”

Joffrey’s eyes flicker over her form and the coldness, the pure hatred in them, makes her want to recoil. He starts to circle her, hands clasped behind his back, clearly attempting to intimidate her.

“So you would support me… support your King… no matter what judgement I passed on your traitor father?”  

Sansa feels like she’s being dragged in every direction – and she just wants to run. She wants this to all go away.

“I would,” she whispers, though the words feel wrong on her tongue.

“Good,” he spits, right beside her now. They’re around the same height – in-fact, she’s taller – yet she feels tiny, vulnerable and scared. “The wedding will go ahead as normal.”

Her eyes snap to his, confused.

“But my father-”

“-is a traitor and will be punished accordingly. What sort of King would I be, however, if I broke my oath, did not keep my promises? And I promise you this, _Lady Sansa_ …” his voice takes on a darker note, low and sinister, as he leans in to murmur in her ear, “There is no way I will let your brother taint my family even more by marrying my sister, but _you… you_ will do your duty. I will bring your traitor father to Kings Landing. I will make him watch as you pledge your allegiance, before the Gods, to _me_. Then, I will make _you_ watch as I take his head.”

Sansa’s heart lurches, falling to the pit of her stomach. The air thins and it feels like she can’t breathe, like he’s quite literally reached into her chest and squeezed her heart in the palm of his hand.

“Please…” she whispers, voice lined with desperation. Tears burn at her eyelids, her nose and forehead prickling, and her mouth suddenly feels very dry.

“ _Please_ ,” he whines, mocking her, “Save your breath _._ Your pleas mean nothing to me.”

Sansa can’t help the first tear that runs down her flushed cheek.

Joffrey’s brow quirks, his hand darting out to catch the tear. He brushes it away, head tilting to the side. Sansa fights the urge to slap his hand away, to spit at him, to bite, scratch and claw.

“Nor do your tears,” he adds finally.

Sansa still can’t speak, can’t breathe, and Joffrey’s sending her another cruel look before he clasps his hands together and starts to walk backwards.

“Well,” he chimes, oddly happy, “Sleep dreams, Princess!”

He opens the door, his torment of her apparently over for now, and through her blurred vision, Sansa catches sight of Jon again before the door slams shut.

Once he’s gone, Sansa lets the first sob rip from her throat. Her hand comes up to cover her mouth, to try and conceal it, but the tears come hard and fast.

“My lady?” Jon’s rough brogue flows through the door.

She ignores him, can’t hear him over the blood that rushes through her veins, the pulse that pounds in her ears.

“Princess?” he tries again a few minutes later.

She sits on her bed, lowering herself on shaky legs.

His last try is quieter, unbearably soft, and it makes her cry harder.

“Sansa?”

She ignores him for the third time.

She wants to be alone.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s gone midnight - not that she's keeping watch - when Sansa doesn’t want to be alone anymore.

Her throat is hoarse and her eyes burn, but she refuses to cry anymore. Father would want her to be strong, he’d want her to be _more_ than the scared little girl she was when she left home.  

But the pressure is too much and she’s starting to break.

She walks to her door on shaky legs, taking a deep breath before opening it.

She’s not surprised to see Jon there, still standing guard, not looking tired in the slightest.

“I thought you’d have gone back to your chambers,” she whispers, keeping her voice low.

“I thought you might need me,” he replies simply. If she wasn’t sure he knew what was going on, what had happened, she is now.

“You know what’s happened?”

He bows his head slightly, “everyone knows.”

He doesn’t shield her from the truth. As much as it grieves her to hear it, Sansa respects that.

She purses her lips, taking another deep breath, before she opens the door wider.

“Will you come in?”

Jon hesitates, clearly thinking it a bad idea, but he relents when he sees her sad expression.

He gives a small nod and walks inside, gently shutting the door behind him.

“Sansa…” he murmurs, and she doesn’t know what he’s going to say, but just her name from his lips is enough to break down her walls.  

She squeezes her eyes shut, a soft sob escaping her as tears roll down her heated cheeks. Jon’s beside her in a second and this time he doesn’t hesitate. He pulls her in, strong arms wrapping around her, holding her head to his chest.

Her own arms find purchase around his waist and she clings on for dear life – because even though he confuses her, hurts her, he’s the only one who makes her feel better too.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs simply, stroking her hair.

“I don’t know what to do,” she sobs into his chest, voice muffled by the material and her tears.

He breaks away slightly, hands travelling to her face. His thumbs softly stroke her heated cheeks as he tips her face up to look at him.

“What you must do... is sleep,” he orders in reply, “the rest will come later.”

She wants to protest, wants to scream and shout and cry, but her eyes are drooping and it’s only now that she realises just how tired she is.

“Will you stay with me?” She asks, voice small and vulnerable, “I don’t think I can bear to be alone.”

Jon’s eyes dart to the bed, a slight look of unease flickering over his expression, before he forces a smile and returns his gaze to her.

“Of course, Princess.”

They stay silent as he removes his boots and sits down on the bed. Sansa waits for him to lay down before she follows suit. She slowly settles with her head on his chest, her hand resting next to it, her right leg curled around his thigh. His arm kind of lingers for a moment, hovering mid-air, uncharacteristically unsure, before he brings it down and wraps it around her.

As sleep threatens to overcome her, a thought sparks in her mind.

“Don’t fall asleep,” she whispers, “if someone finds us like this…”

“I won’t,” he finishes for her, “I will only stay until you fall asleep.”

Sansa nods, body tired and broken and laced with pain.

Her breathing starts to even out and just as she begins to relax, she feels Jon pick her hand up.

Their fingers entwine, resting on his chest, and finally Sansa can sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope this chapter was worth the wait guys! warning for a death and just Joffrey being a canon-style bastard...

Sansa sits beside Joffrey, skin prickling with unease, as silence stretches out uncomfortably between them.

They’re on a heavily guarded carriage ride through the city, Joffrey rolling his eyes every five minutes and sighing petulantly, irritated by his grandfather’s insistence that a King should occasionally show his face to his people.

Sansa isn’t interested in small talk, in idle chat about what lovely weather they’re having or what manner of entertainment should be at their wedding.

She isn’t interested in him at all.

In-fact, an increasingly dark part of her is starting to hate him.

Through the window, she can see the Hound and Jon walking beside the carriage as the crowds part, some cheering, some sneering. She’s just staring into space when she suddenly catches sight of a small animal in a nearby alley, its form casting a shadow up the wall as it licks from a dirty puddle.

“Stop!” she cries suddenly, banging on the carriage door.

Joffrey opens his mouth to snap at her but she’s out the door before he can, lifting her skirts and rushing over to the alley.

When she reaches the animal, half cloaked in darkness, she stares at it for moment. Then, with a delighted gasp, she realises what it is.

A direwolf.

She drops to her haunches, a bright smile lighting up her face as it lifts its head to look at her curiously. She laughs, half in happiness, half in disbelief, as her hand comes out to stroke its dirty fur.

“What is it?” Joffrey’s bored voice asks from behind her. She turns her head, catching the distasteful expression on his features.

She turns back to the animal as it nuzzles its nose into her palm.

“It’s a direwolf,” she whispers in awe, “I thought Jon’s was the only one. None have been sighted south of Winterfell for centuries…”

 _It’s a sign,_ Sansa thinks, _it has to be._ A sign that everything will be okay in the end. She sees the wolf as a symbol of her home, of her house and of Winterfell, and she desperately wants to hold it close.

“Ooh, _Jon_ now, is it?” Joffrey sneers, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Sansa’s skin prickles, “well, he’s not a Knight so I cannot address him as such, can I?

Joffrey rolls his eyes, bored.

“Whatever. Come, we must continue.”

Sansa falters and stares at the animal longingly, not wanting to leave it.

“Are you deaf?” Joffrey snaps, “or just stupid?”

Sansa’s jaw tightens, but she doesn’t break. The wolf’s big, dark eyes stare up at her and her heart clenches.

“Gods,” Joffrey sighs, rolling his eyes to the sky before he sullenly crosses his arms over his chest, “Just bring it, _keep_ it, if you’re that obsessed.”

Sansa’s eyes widen and she turns her head, her loose hair flipping over her shoulder.

“Truly?” she repeats, eyes sparkling, “you mean it?”

“Just do it,” Joffrey bites out and turns around, “before I change my mind.”

Sansa doesn’t have to be told twice and she scoops the animal up in her arms. It fidgets and its dirty fur smears mud on her fine clothes and its tongue is wet and gross as it happily licks her face, but Sansa doesn’t care.

For the first time in days, she throws her head back and laughs.

 

 

 

 

 

"What will you do now?" Sansa asks her brother when they're sitting on her balcony, untouched lunches gathering flies on the table.

Robb gives a heavy sigh, more interested in his wine than his food. She’s lived with him long enough to know when he aims to drown his sorrows. His finger runs along the rim of his goblet as he softly shakes his head.

"I have no idea, Sansa," he says quietly, "I am at a loss."

"I know the feeling."

She registers the movement of his Adam's apple as he swallows. There's a slight tick in his cheek as he clenches his jaw and his hands curl into fists on the table. He looks more angry than she's ever seen him, his expression etched with fury, and she grieves for the calm, measured boy she loved.

She grieves for what her  _betrothed_ has done to him. To them.

"What about Myrcella?" she asks, "he said you can't marry her anymore."

She can't even bring herself to say his name and Robb's jaw clenches tighter again.

" _He said, he said,_ " Robb mocks, but his anger isn't directed at her, " _He's_  just a boy. Nothing but a child with a paper sword... yet I am powerless against him. He has given me his sister, then taken her away. Declared war upon my family, yet war is not an option. And now  _you_  have to—"

The words lodge in his throat and he has to look away.

It's silent for a moment, save for the soft crashing of the waves against the shore.

"He won't hurt me as long as I do as he says," Sansa says, though she's not entirely sure it's true. She doesn't know Joffrey, no longer wishes to. All she knows is that he's cruel - like a tyrant, a child who plucks at the wings of a fly for fun.

“Gods forgive me but…” Robb pauses for a moment, voice quiet as he looks off into the distance, “I wish Father had never said anything. When I was a boy, as soon as I understood that I would be Lord of Winterfell, I told myself… _swore_ to myself… that I would be just like him - strong and just. Loyal to my friends and brave when I faced my enemies… and yet I find myself resenting him for following those very rules.”

Sansa nods and releases a humourless breath. She knows exactly how he feels, has spent the past few days experiencing the very same conflicting emotions coursing through her blood.

“I know,” she verbalises the thought, “but what other choice did he have, the _honourable_ Eddard Stark?”

Robb shakes his head and picks up his cup.

“That bloody honour,” he sighs.

Sansa smiles but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

She holds her drink up too and repeats, “that bloody honour.”

They touch cups, but it’s not a toast.

 

 

 

 

 

Sansa can’t avoid the King for long, for his nameday soon comes around.

The festivities are grand, a great social event thrown under the guise of celebrating honour and chivalry and the magnificence that is Joffrey Baratheon. Sansa knows better. There is no honour in Joffrey, no grace or kindness.

As she makes her way around the celebrations, Jon and her direwolf – who she’s named Lady - walking by her side, she thinks the King doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve the lavish carnivals, the fine puppet shows and mummer performances. He doesn’t deserve the contests and challenges where brave men risk their lives to impress him.

He doesn’t deserve any of it.

“You’re quiet today,” Jon notes, bringing her out of her scornful reverie.

Sansa gives a sigh so he knows she’s heard him, but she doesn’t reply.

As they walk, he doesn’t push the subject, and she’s grateful for the calm air he carries with him. It eases her troubled spirit and she briefly wonders how one person can make her feel so safe and yet so out of control, all at the same time.

In the distance, she sees Robb and Myrcella, sitting on a bench and speaking in hushed tones.

“He likes her,” Sansa murmurs, a sad glint to her eye.

Jon follows her eye-line and quirks a brow.

“She likes him,” he shrugs easily, “arranged marriages are rarely so… well arranged.”

She watches, heart heavy, as Myrcella starts to cry and Robb pulls her into his arms, chin resting on top of her head as she clutches at his jerkin with tiny hands. Sansa can see them trembling from where she stands.

“The King has forbidden their union,” she says, “his idea of just punishment, I suppose… separating the Stark and Baratheon who could _actually_ grow to love each other. Though come to think of it, they are not Baratheons at all, are they?”

The tournaments are being held on the eastern walls of the Red Keep, and Sansa looks out upon Blackwater Bay.

“When the waters carried me here,” she starts, “I was so full of hope. All I ever wanted was to be Queen… and now, I can’t think of anything worse. You were right. I am naïve.”

Jon pauses, gently grabbing her shoulders and turning her to face him. His touch burns as it soothes and her eyes dart to where they connect. He lets her go, but his eyes don’t stray from her face.

“I was not right,” he insists, voice low and smooth, “I have seen your bravery, your strength. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but my job is as clear now as it’s always been. I _will_ protect you.”

She laughs, but there’s no humour in it, “from the very King you are bound to serve?”

Jon’s expression is severe, stoic and unwavering.

“From everyone.”

He doesn’t hesitate. Sansa wants to believe him. She stares at him for a beat, the air between them charged, before she slowly turns and continues to walk. As they reach a stall filled with lavish fruit and wine, she picks a grape and tosses it to Lady. The wolf eats it greedily, staring up at her for another taste, and Sansa smiles before taking a whole bunch.

“You couldn’t protect _her_ ,” she says eventually, knowing it’s unfair but too far gone to care. She throws another grape to Lady and pretends to focus on her. She’s tired of tiptoeing around their history, tired of yearning for answers to questions she’s too timid to ask.

Jon winces slightly, as though he’s been hit.

“I am aware of that, Sansa,” steel grey eyes stare down at her as his voice hardens.

“Did you love her?”

He pauses for a moment.

“As well as I could.”

Sansa wants to ask what on Earth _that_ means, surely you either love someone or you don’t, but it’s not as though she’s well-versed in the matter, so she lets it slide.

“Would you have married her?”

She knows he’s not inexperienced and she assumes he deflowered her and so marrying her would have been the honourable thing to do.

He laughs humourlessly at that and they continue to walk, keeping a sensible distance between them.

“Marriage is not a concept the wildlings particularly recognise. At least not in the same way as we do,” he shrugs, “and I was content just… being around her.”

His voice is softer than she’s ever heard it, devoid of that detached, icy edge, and she wants to know more.

“What was her name?”

He falters again and when he speaks, the word looks like it hurts as it leaves his mouth.

“Ygritte.”

It’s not a name she’s ever heard of, certainly not a name that exists in Winterfell, and her curiosity is sparked.

“And what was she like?”

The corner of his mouth twitches, but it’s not quite a smile.

“She was brave,” he says without hesitation, “and strong and wild and _free_. A master archer and an even better strategist. She ran circles around the fools surrounding her.”

Sansa notices how he focuses on the girl’s intelligence, what made her tick on the inside. Where most men speak only of a woman’s looks, enamoured with a tight body and pretty face, Jon sees _more_. 

She wants to know though, wants to know everything about her, this girl who had captured his indifferent heart.

“Was she pretty?” she asks, trying to keep her voice light and casual.

He smiles this time, small wrinkles she’s never seen before crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“Aye. Her eyes were too far apart and she was skinny and pale and she had a chip in her tooth from where she fell on a rock…but she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen,” his smile turns sadder, the memories clearly painful, and he stops to carefully pick up a strand of her hair. He twirls it between his thumb and forefinger and Sansa holds her breath, “she had hair like you. Kissed by fire, she said.”

His head is tipped to the side slightly and he wears an unreadable expression as his eyes flicker over her face.

“You loved her,” Sansa murmurs because it’s clear that he did.

“I loved her,” he replies softly, “but I lost her.”

He smiles, but there’s no joy in it. It's to mask his pain and more than anything- more than she wants to break this engagement, more than she wants to go home - she wants to mend him, to make him feel better.

“Why did you leave her?”

He seems to think for a moment and a flash of uncertainty appears on his face.

“Tywin Lannister noticed me from an early age, my _bravery_ , my skill with a sword. He offered me better than a bastard’s life, if I pledged my allegiance to the King. When I met Ygritte, I always knew I’d have to leave her, that I’d have to go back to Kings Landing.”

“You chose duty over love,” Sansa says, and it isn’t a question. For some inexplicable reason, the statement fills her with a foreboding sense of sadness.

“I did. I had no idea about the raid beyond the Wall. They kept it from me. When I found out, saw her body for myself…” his jaw hardens and he glances away, “well, let’s just say I wasn’t happy.”

“Yet you stayed,” Sansa says evenly, “you stayed in Kings Landing, stayed serving Joffrey. Why?”

Sansa practically _sees_ his walls going up, impenetrable around him.

His jaw hardens.

“It does not matter.”

“It does to me.”

He gives a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“You’re not going to give this up, are you?” he asks, voice flat.

“Nope.” Sansa replies easily.

“I nearly killed him,” he says quietly, and his gaze flits to the King where he sits on his grand throne, wearing a bored expression and dangling his legs over the side, “Baelish too. All of them. I thought about it a million times.”

“What stopped you?” 

He pauses again and his eyes squint against the setting sun as he turns his head and gazes across the ocean.

“I saw your ship arriving.”

Sansa’s eyes widen in surprise.

“What?”

He gives a small shrug, expression unreadable.

“The King assigned me to protect you and I... I was going to refuse. Truly, I was. Then I saw it and I saw you and…”

He shakes his head slightly and squints again, like he’s said too much, given too much of himself away.

“And what?” Sansa pushes, desperate.

He turns to look at her, _really_ look at her, and that smile doesn’t reach his eyes again.

“I know the King, I’ve always known what a bastard he is and I know what this world is like, how hard it is to be alone in it. I couldn’t save _her_ and…”

Sansa’s gut turns to stone.

“I’m not her, Jon.” She says and the words come out harsher than she’d like.

“No,” he replies smoothly, unfazed, “you are not.”

He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t _give_ anything else, and Sansa’s suddenly blind with jealousy. She wants to be strong and brave and wild like his wildling woman. She doesn’t want him to see her as a Princess, a spoilt little rich girl who knows nothing of the real world.

She doesn’t want to be a replacement either, just another redhead like Ros, another pale imitation of the real thing.

She doesn’t want to be his second chance, someone to save because he couldn’t save her.

She wants to mean something to him. She wants to ask if he understands what this _thing_ is - this rare and fragile thing that’s unfolding between them - because she sure as hell doesn’t.

She wants him to stop being cold to her and to tell her how he’s feeling now and then and to hold her hand like they’re fucking children and she wants this to be _real._

But they aren’t children, and this isn’t real.

“You’re pushing me away,” she says quietly, and she can’t look at him.

“Princess,” he starts and she wants to scream, she doesn’t want him to call her that, “I have destroyed every person I’ve ever loved. Nobody gets close to me and survives.”

Sansa swallows past the lump in her throat.

“I don’t know whether that’s a confession or a warning,” she whispers finally.

“Yes, you do.”

He won’t look at her, won’t give her anything else, and then Cersei is calling for his attention from across the way.

He gives her a small nod and pushes past her.

Sansa’s chest feels too tight and she can’t move, sickeningly, _stupidly_ jealous of a ghost.

 

 

 

 

 

The thing about direwolves, Sansa soon learns, is that they’re too loyal for their own good.

She comes to learn this one particularly warm morning in Kings Landing, when she’s walking through the gardens and Joffrey decides to torment her.

As tears well behind her eyelids, he tells her he’s going to parade her traitor father’s head through the whole of Westeros on a spike. He tells her if she doesn’t behave, he’ll do the same to her brother.

It’s only when he grabs her by the crook of the elbow, too rough, and sneers in her face that Lady jumps to her rescue.

The animal opens its jaws and howls, then it latches onto the King’s arm with a violent snarl.

Joffrey squeals like a little girl, just as Sansa shouts for her to stop. Not because she cares about the King at all, but because she cares about her wolf and she knows what he will do to her.

The Hound steps forward, hand on his sword. Sansa’s eyes search around frantically and she wants Jon, she _needs_ Jon, but he’s not here and she’s alone. She jumps in-front of them and puts her arms out to the Hound.

“Please don’t,” she begs, as she turns around and grabs Lady, pulling at her heavy body.

She finally manages to get her off, dropping to her haunches to hold her close.

Joffrey stares down at them, chest rising and falling with the rapidity of his breaths. His eyes glare with fury, ripped shirt dripping crimson.

“Your Grace…” she starts tentatively, arm still wrapped protectively around the animal.

She sees his nostrils flare as his eyes dart to the Hound.

“Kill it,” he snarls, “Kill that disgusting beast.”

“No!” Sansa cries, as her heart drops to her stomach and the first tears fall, “Please your Grace, she’s just too loyal for her own good, she didn’t mean it-”

“Shut up,” he barks, “you will do as I say,” his gaze snaps to the Hound again, “and so will you.”

He turns on his heel and stomps away, holding his injured arm to his chest.

Sansa stands on shaky legs and begs again.

“Please, please don’t do this,” her breath catches on a sob, “I’ll do anything, please-”

The Hound’s face is expressionless, frighteningly blank, and he shoves her aside with one strong arm.

“If I were you, Princess…” he starts as he unsheathes his sword, “I would look away now.”

He lifts his arm and Sansa catches sight of Lady’s big, innocent eyes staring back at her.

She makes one more lurch forward to save her, before the sword swipes down and slices the air.

There’s a brutal, sharp yelp.

Sansa covers her face and sobs.

 

 

 

 

 

Sansa becomes braver then, less scared and sharper round the edges.

It sounds morose, dramatic, but with everything Lady represented, Sansa feels the last part of her innocence die with her. She no longer dreams about returning to Winterfell, to her family. She accepts her fate and forces herself to be strong.

This newfound bravery, this disregard for Joffrey’s rules, leads her to sneak out of the palace one cold night, to a tavern where she knows she’ll find Jon.

It’s easier than she thought it would be, sneaking past the guards. They’re either sleeping at their post, or preoccupied with one of her ladies, and she slips away into the night unseen.

The Old Inn on Eel Alley isn’t hard to find, only a short walk through the damp alleyways. She makes the journey quickly, eyes sharp and alert, and thinks of how angry Jon will be when she gets there. He’s bound to be furious, fuming at her for putting herself in danger.

Sansa can’t bring herself to care.

When she arrives, she feels the warmth of the tavern immediately. Not just from the roaring fire, but the raucous laughter, the sense of camaraderie and friendship.

As though drawn by gravity, her eyes find Jon’s immediately and her skin blossoms into heat.

Just as she suspected, his expression is fury, laced with unquestionable surprise. It gives her a perverse thrill, to have one up on him, to ruffle those constantly composed feathers.

From across the room, he stands, his chair scraping audibly across the stone floor. He leaves his drinking partners and pushes past the crowd, making his way over to her.

When he reaches her, his hand on her elbow isn’t rough like Joffrey’s, but it burns all the same.

“What are you doing?” he hisses, grabbing the hood on her cloak and yanking it over her head to cover her face.

Sansa frowns, shrugging him off and pushing the hood back again.

“Just having a little fun,” she drawls, quirking a brow. Jon’s nostrils flare and his jaw clenches, but he can’t say anything else because a large, bawdy man is patting him too hard on the back.

“Well, who do we have here, Snow?” his voice is loud and booming, as he looks her up and down.

Jon stares at her, looking like he wishes he could shoot fire from his eyes.

“Alayne Stone of Arryn,” Sansa replies without hesitation, extending her hand. The large man gives it a wet kiss as Jon still stares, that muscle in his jaw ticking.

“Well, Alayne Stone of Arryn,” the man repeats, “what a beauty you are. I can see why Snow’s been hiding you.”

Jon rolls his eyes, taking her by the arm.

“Apologies Tormund... but she’s not staying,” he practically growls, dragging her back to the entrance.

“Yes I am,” Sansa hisses, ripping her arm away, “that castle is eating me alive, Jon. I need to unwind; I need to feel. Besides, do you want me walking back to the Red Keep alone? It’s a miracle I _got here_ in one piece. It’s your job to protect me, is it not? So… protect me.”

She ends her little speech with a quirk of her brow, daring him to protest, to say no.

He stares at her for a moment before acquiescing with a frustrated grunt.

Sansa tries not to smile, following him as he stalks back to his table.

She sits down next to him, introducing herself again as Alayne, a name she’s always found pretty, as Jon crosses his arms over his chest. When she reaches for his flagon of ale, he easily bats her hand away.

“Don’t push it,” he mutters under his breath.

She smirks, reaching for it again and lifting it to her mouth, taking a hearty swig.

She doesn’t miss the way his gaze follows the movement of her tongue when she licks some foam from her top lip.

 

 

 

 

 

An hour and three ales later, Sansa’s finally having fun and Jon’s finally relaxing.

 

She’s dancing with Tormund and a large man introduced as Sam, a fast paced, exhilarating jig that makes her breathless. They twirl her in their large arms and she can feel the heat of Jon’s eyes on her. When they finally let her go, she practically collapses into her chair.

“Had enough?” Jon asks. If she didn’t know better, Sansa would swear she hears amusement in his voice.

“I’m having fun,” she admits breathlessly, “your friends are wonderful.”

He gives a tight smile.

“Aye, they are.”

She leans back in her chair, wiping the sweat from her brow.

“It’s nice to not have to be so… _proper,_ ” she continues, “to laugh and dance… to see how the other half live.”

“To be free,” Jon finishes for her, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Sansa stares for a moment before she nods.

“To be free.”

Jon leans forward in his chair, gaze flickering from her mouth to her eyes and Sansa’s hypnotised.

“The problem is…” he picks up a stray strand of hair, stuck to her cheek, and softly tucks it behind her ear, “you can be _Lady_ _Alayne of House Arryn…_ ” he mocks, but his eyes seem to sparkle, “…or you can be Sansa, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms… but you cannot be both.”

Sansa swallows and his fingers burn where they touch her skin. He trails the backs of two down her cheek before he pulls back.

As reality starts to invade her mind, the tavern door opens and Ghost rushes in, bringing the cold with him.

He heads straight for his master and Jon holds his hand out for him to nuzzle.

“Hello boy,” Jon greets, stroking his fur.

Sansa’s heart clenches, too tight for her chest, as she thinks of Lady.

A mist seems to descend over her, everything pulsing too hot, too bright, and then she’s crying. Like a pot waiting to boil over, she can’t seem to hold it in. Images of her father, of Robb and mother and Lady and her siblings all flash before her eyes and she can’t breathe.

“Sansa?” through the haze, she hears Jon’s voice, but she can’t place him.

She thinks she hears him stand. She thinks she feels him grab her wrist and gently pull her up. She thinks he’s dragging her upstairs, to a private room the innkeeper clearly lets him use. She thinks all these things because before she knows it, the door is closing and they’re alone.

He comes to stand in-front of her and she holds onto the leather of his jerkin, closing her eyes like she needs him to anchor her to the world.

His own hands seem to falter, unsure, before they find her waist.

They’re silent for a moment as she calms down, but it’s not awkward. Eventually, she lifts her head and looks at him best she can through her tears. 

“I’m sorry, I—”  she tries to say, thinking she’s embarrassed him.

“Don’t apologise,” he replies simply, voice even.

For some reason, it makes her cry more.

He waits for her, characteristically patient, and his thumb swipes across her flushed cheek to wipe away her tears.

Everything burns, everything hurts, and she just wants him to take it all away.

She lifts her eyes to his again, pupils darkening, and her hands clutch tighter at his clothes.

Maybe he’s hurting, maybe he’s tired too, because he doesn’t protest like before.

He doesn’t look entirely comfortable either, and Sansa’s eyes drop to his mouth.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of me,” she hums, leaning in.

She feels his hands flex around her waist, pulling her closer. 

“Not of you,” he murmurs, voice that low and gruff tone she’s grown so attracted to.

“Of what then?”

He pulls her closer still and when he speaks, she feels the heat of his breath across her lips.

“This.”

It’s a simple word, just a whisper, and then his lips are on hers.

Sansa opens for him immediately, releasing a sharp gasp as his tongue sweeps inside her mouth. Her hands travel up his chest, wrapping around his neck as his own tighten around her waist. His tastes like smoke and ale and something sweeter, and lust kicks at her stomach like a mule.

His head slants as he kisses her, taking her mouth like the conqueror he is. Without breaking away from her lips, he leans down, his hands gripping under her thighs. She gasps in surprise as he lifts her, the audible thump of her shoes flying across the room and hitting the door breaking the silence.

For such a solemn man by day, a surprising amount of passion sparks from his fingertips.

He walks them forward until her back hits the wall and she gasps against his mouth, skin bursting into heat.

He takes advantage of her surprise, his nose nudging her cheek to the side to bury his face in her neck. He plants open mouthed kisses down the length of her flushed skin, hands gripping into the flesh of her behind. The dull ache between her legs intensifies as he pulls her closer, pausing to suck at her collarbone.

She breathes his name and this time, it doesn’t make him stop.

Instead, he pulls back to stare at her, pupils blown to black.

His perfect curls are dishevelled and his mouth is swollen and Sansa’s never wanted anyone before, not really, but she _wants him_.

Clearly, he wants her too because he’s kissing her again, strong arms wrapping around her waist and lifting her away from the wall. She curls her legs tighter around his waist, pressing herself harder against him and… she feels it. She feels _him,_ hard and throbbing, pressing insistently against the dampening material at the apex of her thighs.

She keens against him, tiny pulses of pleasure rippling through her body. He walks them over to the arched window, placing her on the windowsill, and his hands immediately go to the fabric of her dress.

He stares at her, refusing to break heated eye contact, as he gathers the fabric and lifts it up until it pools at her waist. She stares right back, jaw slack and eyes hooded, and feels a thrill at the clench of his jaw, the quickening of his breath.

She revels in the power that comes with making a man like him lose control.

Finally, the dress is around her waist and just the thin fabric of her smallclothes stands between them. His eyes seem to darken even further at the sight and his hands go to her waist, pulling her flush against him.

She gasps again when she feels his engorged cock, hot and hard against her. He thrusts shallowly against her open thighs, head bowed, fingers digging harder into her waist.

“Please,” she begs for nothing in particular, “please, Jon…”

He lifts his head and kisses her again, swallowing her moan.

“We shouldn’t…” he groans into her neck, but he’s still hard and still grinding against her cunt.

“Don’t,” she bites out breathlessly, wanting to scream. She hates this. He slices her and sews her and he can’t stop now; he just can’t. “Just touch me.”

She grabs his wrist and doesn’t give him time to protest again. She brings his hand to her, pressing two fingers against her needy wetness.

At the feel of her, soaking through the fabric, the sound that falls from Jon’s lips is half frustration, half pure torture. 

Weeks of pent up sexual tension seem to boil over at once. Jon kisses her again and his movements are fast but smooth as he removes her smallclothes and leaves her bare before him.

Sansa holds her breath, but there’s no room for shame, for embarrassment.

Not when he’s looking at her like that.

His fingers go back to her, two spreading her wetness. She almost sobs at the foreign sensation, her hands going to his biceps, fingers curling into the skin beneath his clothes. Her legs tremble and she can’t speak, she can’t _breathe,_ as he kisses her softly and slowly slips one finger inside her.

The sensation is unknown, unfamiliar, but by no means unpleasant. She holds onto him and he holds on right back, mouth moving insistently against hers as he coaxes her pleasure from her.

He plays her like an instrument he mastered years ago, each touch, flick, rub expert. When she’s sufficiently pliant in his arms, he slowly pushes another finger inside, pushing past the small resistance he finds there. He’s careful, each movement seductive and smooth, and she doesn’t have anything to compare it to but she’s sure nothing could be better than this.

As his fingers move inside her, his thumb finds her sensitive bundle of nerves. She sobs her approval, grabbing his face and kissing him insistently. He matches her enthusiasm, tongue coaxing her mouth open and matching the movements of his fingers below.

She feels something building, a hot coil in the pit of her stomach, and she starts to tremble. She holds onto him, like she needs him to ground her, and she doesn’t understand what’s happening. She feels like she’s racing towards something, but she can’t quite get there.

“Jon,” she practically sobs his name again, legs starting to shake.

He kisses her again, just a subtle brush of their mouths.

“Sansa,” he whispers simply – and she lets go.

White hot pleasure rushes through her veins, taking her breath away. Jon holds her as it happens, wave upon wave washing over her until she feels like she’s breaking apart. Tiny aftershocks spark through her veins and she clings to him as it subsides.

He’s never been a talker, but his kiss seems to express everything he can’t bring himself to say.

She rests her forehead against his, trembling in the afterglow.

There will be much to discuss. 

But tonight, they’re together and they’re safe, and Sansa can’t bring herself to worry about tomorrow.


	8. Chapter 8

With a start, Myrcella wakes to find her sheets stained crimson red.

Her stomach cramps in painful spasms, sore and foreign, and there’s only one place she wants to be.

One person she wants to see.

She takes a breath and looks at herself in the mirror, searching for any differences in her appearance, any physical sign that she’s a woman now. Apart from the slight flush in her cheeks, she finds none, and then she’s standing outside Robb’s door without even realising she’s walked there.

He grabs her elbow and pulls her inside, eyes darting down the length of the candle-lit hallway.

“Gods, Myrcella…” he breathes out, shutting it behind him, “you shouldn’t be here.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, her brows drawing into a frown.

“Charming,” she sulks, unable to stop her lips from forming into a small pout. He’s right, of course. Every time she sneaks into his chambers, she puts herself – and him – at risk.

Especially now they’re no longer betrothed, no longer allowed to be together.

Yet, Myrcella reminds herself, despite his protestations, he’s never turned her away and that has to _mean_ something _._

Robb sighs, running a hand over his face. When he returns it to his side, she notices the purplish shadows under his eyes, how very tired he looks, and a heavy guilt hits her.

“Are you alright?” she asks softly, taking a step towards him.

“Not really,” he says flatly, and he turns slightly, to face her more. The dim candlelight illuminates a nasty bruise on his left cheekbone, swollen and purple.

“What happened?” she rushes over, softly taking his cheek in her hand.

He winces slightly, pulling away from her.

“I’m the son of a traitor, didn’t you know?” he says humourlessly and tries to walk away.

She grabs his hand, entwining their fingers, and his darkened gaze darts to where they join back up to her eyes.

“Joffrey did this?”

He laughs again, grim and harsh, and Myrcella hates the sound.

“Your brother is a coward,” he bites out, “a coward who knows he stands no chance against me in a real fight. He let his guard do his dirty work.”

“ _Jon_?” Myrcella asks, voice stunned.

“No,” Robb replies quickly, a small shake to his head, “Jon is a good man. The altercation was with Clegane. Joffrey was… _boasting_ about what he was going to do to my father when he arrives in Kings Landing and I don’t know, I just… I got so _mad._ I went for him and…” he shakes his head, like it doesn’t matter anymore, “I can’t just continue to sit here and do nothing, Myrcella. For the good of my family, I have to act on my father’s behalf.”

Myrcella doesn’t like the sound of that and her eyes search his face, taking in soft russet curls, deep blue eyes and a sharp, chiselled jaw.

 _He really is very handsome,_ she thinks, though it’s hardly the time.

“But what can you do?” she asks quietly, already nervous of the answer.

He stares at her for a moment, expression softening, and she knows she’s not going to like what comes next.

“I have to go home,” he murmurs, tone smooth and apologetic, and Myrcella’s chest feels too tight, “my father is on his way, to either confront the King or bend the knee, I don’t know. Either way, Winterfell will be without its Lord and it’s my duty to take his place.”

“What about your sister?” Myrcella tries, desperate to find an argument that will resonate with him, “you will leave her here without your protection?”

“She has Jon,” Robb says, “he will look after her. And Joffrey still plans to marry her, he won’t harm her. I cannot say the same for my Mother and my siblings. There must be a Stark in Winterfell to keep the Lords of the North in line. I must rally their support.”

She feels tears prickle behind her eyes and she furiously blinks them back.

“I hate my brother,” she bites out, not caring how petulant she sounds, “I don’t want you to go.”

Robb’s expression softens and he reaches for her, pulling her close to his chest with a sigh. She clutches onto the leather of his jerkin, soaking the material as the first tears fall.

“I don’t want to go either,” he says, hands softly stroking her sunshine hair.

“Then don’t!” she exclaims suddenly, pulling back, “stay here, with me.”

He sighs again, closing his eyes and suddenly looking older than his eighteen years.

“You’re being unfair.”

Myrcella’s gut turns to stone.

“ _I’m_ being unfair?” she takes a step back and his hands kind of reach for her, before he pulls them back.

“I thought you would understand,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t sound angry - just disappointed and mostly very, very tired.

“Really, I don’t,” _really_ she does, but she can’t tell him this so she hides behind her careful façade, “I came here tonight to tell you… I’ve bled. We can be together now. I _want_ us to be together… in every way a man and a woman _can_ be together. Instead, you’re leaving me.”

Robb stares at her for a moment, before his jaw clenches and an incredulous sound falls from his lips.

“We can’t do that,” he says finally, voice low and even.

“Why not?”

“Why not?” he repeats, disbelieving, and he runs a hand through his unruly curls, “how can you ask me that? How can you be so naïve?”

Myrcella’s throat suddenly feels very dry and she bites her bottom lip to stop it from trembling.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“No,” he interrupts, giving another sigh, “Don’t apologise. I’m not angry at _you,_ I just — I should never have touched you in the first place.”

Myrcella’s stomach drops and of all the things he could have said right then, that’s the worst.

“Don’t _say_ that—” she pleads, but he’s interrupting again, that fire blazing in his bright eyes.

“What do you want me to say? You’re so young, just a girl—”

“You didn’t think I was too young last week when I put my mouth on your—”

“Gods, Myrcella,” Robb groans and runs a tired hand over his face.

They’re silent for a beat, tense air stretching out in the widening gap between them. He pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and she just stands there, trying not to cry.

“If you cared about me…” she starts, quiet and slow, “you’d want to lay with me.” 

She’s being unfair. Deep down, she knows this. But despite her name, she’ll always be a Lannister at heart, spoilt and devious and just a little selfish.

Robb takes her hand again and there’s a softness shining behind his eyes. If she’s a Lannister, he’s a Stark through and through – honourable, warm and kind. 

“It’s _because_ I care about you…” he murmurs, one hand coming up to stroke her face, “…that I can’t.”

With that, his other hand rises and then he’s cupping her face.  His thumbs gently brush over her flushed cheeks, wiping away the tears that have managed to escape.

He doesn’t reassure her, doesn’t say things will be okay, doesn’t make any promises he won’t be able to keep.

He just captures her lips in a soft, sweet kiss.

It feels like a goodbye.

 

 

 

 

 

  
“I’m sick of walking through these gardens,” Sansa sulks, eyes flickering around the grounds disdainfully. There are only so many times she can admire the same tree and the monotony of it makes her want to scream.  

Jon walks beside her, hand on his sword.

“What would you like to do instead?”

Her gaze flickers to him and she quickly looks away, a blush colouring her cheeks.

“I don’t know,” she saves herself, “there’s nothing _to_ do here.”

He doesn’t answer, just keeps his gaze straight ahead, and Ghost snaps excitedly at his heels.

“We could… talk?” Sansa tries hesitantly.

“We are talking.”

She fights the urge to roll her eyes.

“About last night.”

Jon doesn’t react again, but she registers the small tick of his jaw as he clenches it.

“I don’t know if that’s wise,” he says, voice even.

Sansa closes her eyes, her anger rising. She can feel her pulse pounding in her ears, the blood rushing through her veins. She knows him well enough by now to know that he’s retreating, but she doesn’t know who he’s trying to protect.

All she knows is that she’s tired of fighting this – this rare and beautiful and fragile thing that they are – and she won’t let them go back to the way things were.

“Please don’t pull away from me, Jon,” she says, trying to keep her voice even and clear, “not now.”

He stops, giving a sigh and turning to face her.

“Sansa. Please. Just… I can’t.”

“Can’t _what_?” she bites back angrily, not deterred, “You _did,_ so your objections are kind of meaningless now, don’t you think?”

He still looks unsure, impossible to read, and she fights the urge to shake him.

She knows she’ll have to take the reins, his stubborn sense of honour damning them to constantly dance one step forward, two steps back.

“Let’s be alone for a little while,” she whispers, glancing up at him through her eyelashes, careful to keep a distance between them in-case of prying eyes.

“We are alone,” he replies, honeyed accent deeper and rougher than usual. His jaw is still clenched, but his eyes flicker to her mouth.

“ _Alone,_ ” she draws out the word, letting it hang significantly, “take us somewhere. We can pretend everything else doesn’t exist, that everything is the way it’s supposed to be. Just… us.”

She starts speaking again before he can say no, because she doesn’t think she can bear it if he does.

“You know,” she starts, “everyone thinks I’m this _stupid,_ naïve little girl. The one whose Daddy got her everything she ever wanted, including a handsome prince. Maybe I _was_ that girl once. But somewhere along the way, I… _wasn’t_ anymore…and no-one even noticed. Robb was in love once, he was really in love, but he wasn’t allowed to be with her – and now I think he’s in love again and nothing’s changed. My father is a great man, loyal and honourable and kind and he might lose his head for it and I have to marry the man who takes it and everything, _everything_ is wrong.”

“Sansa…”

“You look after me and when I talk, you listen and you’re the only one who actually looks at me and _sees_ me… so please. Be alone with me. It’s the only thing that’s right.”

Jon sighs and lets out a tortured groan.

"Don't look at me like that, Sansa. I'm not the man for you, not your hero.”

That’s _exactly_ what he is, but she can’t tell him that. 

"I think you like the way I look at you," she murmurs quietly and that jaw clenches again. “Please, Jon.”

He lifts his eyes to the sky before he shakes his head.

He touches her hand slightly, just the barest brush of their fingertips, before he walks away, taking the pieces of her shattered heart with him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sansa lets out a sharp gasp, screwing her eyes shut and turning her face away at the sight before her.

“I’m sorry!” she squeaks, turning to face the door. She keeps her eyes shut and hears curses and ruffling behind her.

After a beat, Tyrion’s voice, low and sharp and always sarcastic, rings out.

“You can turn around now, Lady Sansa.”

Sansa’s reluctant, but she does as she’s told.

The imp and her handmaiden are now decent, though Shae’s still running her hands over her thighs, smoothing out the creased material of her dress.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” she rambles, taking a step forward, and her accented voice is more panicked than usual.

Sansa shakes her head and her mouth opens and closes a few times, but she can’t speak.

“I best go,” Tyrion mutters eventually, softly squeezing the hand at Shae’s side before he brushes past them. The door closes with a click and Shae sinks down on the bed, head in her hands.

Sansa watches her for a moment, quiet and curious, before she comes to sit next to her.

“It’s alright,” she murmurs, placing a hand on her back, “I won’t tell anyone.”

Shae looks at her, her expression sad and worried and a little suspicious. Sansa’s not surprised. From what she knows of her, her history in the whorehouse, she gets the impression the woman’s never had anyone she could trust.

“If Lord Tywin found out…”

Sansa grabs her hand, expression fierce.

“He won’t.”

Shae nods, but her lips are pursed into a thin line and her eyes shimmer with barely restrained tears.

A relationship that’s clearly forbidden, Sansa can’t help but draw parallels to her own situation – and she’s suddenly desperate to know how Shae does it.

“I saw you dancing at the ball the other week… but I had no idea you were…”

Shae’s expression hardens.

“It’s more than that. He _sees_ me as more than that, more than a whore. I love him.”

“I don’t doubt it. I did not mean any offence.”

“I apologise, my lady,” Shae says, “It appears I forgot my place.”

Sansa brushes her apology off with a gentle shrug.

“Can I ask you something?”

Shae nods, tears still glimmering behind her eyes. “Of course, my lady.”

“Aren’t you scared?” she asks, because _she’s_ terrified, “have you tried to stop?”

Shae laughs - a harsh, bitter sound.

“I’ve put a stop to it so many times. I’ve tried to find someone else, to move on. I’ve searched everywhere… but it’s Tyrion I find. Only him.”

Sansa’s nose and temples prickle and she has to look away, blinking back hot tears. It’s not what she wants to hear, the confirmation that this fire, this burning under her skin, will never go away.  

“Surely he has tried to stop it too?”

“Oh yes,” Shae murmurs, “people think he’s this morally bankrupt bastard, but he has a fierce sense of honour. For my own protection, he denied us many times.”

“Did you ever worry…” Sansa pauses for a moment, trying to find the words and her cheeks burst into heat, “…that his excuses were just that? Did you ever ask yourself… what if he _never_ wanted me, the way I want him?”

Tiny shards of pain stab at Sansa’s heart like glass; it feels like she’s dragging them in with every breath. Her voice breaks and she has to purse her lips, blinking back tears.

Shae looks at her, expression soft, and she takes her hand.

“Oh he  _wants,_ my lady,” she smiles softly and Sansa’s chest feels too tight, “trust me, he does.”

“How do you know?” she rolls her eyes to the sky, hiding her anxieties behind an uneasy laugh.

Shae looks at her again but she doesn’t smile this time.

“Because I know Jon.”

 

 

 

 

 

  
He comes to her that night, when the palace is asleep.

She’s staring at the cracks in the ceiling, unable to sleep. In-fact, she can’t remember the last time she slept through the night, the last time her dreams weren’t plagued by blood and death and terror.

She closes her eyes and the room spins and unsettling images sear behind her vision. She sees her beloved father’s head severed from his body, sees her mother clutch at her open throat pouring crimson, sees a knife thrust into Robb’s blood soaked chest. The images get worse, flickering faster until all she sees is red, and her breath feels shallow in her chest.

A soft knock interrupts her reverie and she brings herself back down to earth.

Picking up a candle and letting it guide the way, she opens the door, already knowing who’s on the other side. She feels him before she sees him.

Jon stands in the doorway, silent and strong, and the atmosphere stretches out tense between them.

After a beat, she opens the door wider, drawing him inside.

He walks in and she closes the door and they’re alone.

“If someone saw us like this… I’d lose more than just my job,” he says quietly, “I don’t even know what would happen to you. I’m being selfish, yet I can’t—”

“—can’t stop,” she interrupts him, taking a step forward, “I know. I can’t either.”

He glances down at her, that taciturn expression softer than usual, and his hand comes up to cradle her face. She leans into his touch, heart beating faster.

“How can I protect you…” he murmurs, the pad of his thumb rubbing over her bottom lip, “if I’m the one putting you in danger?”

“No-one can protect me,” she replies, a hard edge to her voice, “no one can protect anyone. All that’s left is this.”

Jon’s brows pull into a frown and he closes his eyes, looking like he’s in pain.

“I’m tired of fighting,” he admits after a beat.

Sansa lips twitch into a sad smile.

“Then don’t,” she murmurs and her chin tips up and _she_ kisses _him._

He doesn’t respond for a moment, lips still beneath hers and arms anchored to his sides. She cradles his face, kissing him once, twice, three times in succession before deepening it, her teeth capturing his bottom lip and giving it a little tug.

A guttural sound falls from his lips at that, and his mouth crashes down onto hers at the same time as his hands grip her waist, pulling her flush against him.

His kiss is less practiced than it has been before, less controlled. He seems to let go, strength flowing from his fingertips, and he walks her back until her legs hit the edge of the bed.

They tumble down together, a mixture of arms, legs, teeth and tongues and everything's been building to this. _This_ moment. He twists them so he’s on top and then he’s _there,_ cradled between her open legs. He covers her with his body and he’s all marble, strong and smooth, and Sansa can’t breathe, can’t make sense of it all.

“Jon,” she mutters, breathless, and her eyes flicker up to him.

He’s staring down at her, gaze intense, and for the first time, he shows no sign of stopping. There’s no hesitation in his dark eyes, no clench to his jaw. It’s exhilarating and she clutches onto him tighter.

“Jon…” she repeats as his head ducks to her neck. He plants hot, open mouthed kisses down the length of her flushed skin, body pressing into her tighter. She feels his hard cock through his breeches, rubbing against the sensitive bundle of nerves between her thighs, and that ache intensifies. 

He mumbles something into her collarbone, an affirmation that he’s heard her, as he pauses to suck at the skin.

“That thing you did before…” she gasps, eyes falling shut, “with your hands…”

The thought of it, the memory of his fingers pulsing inside her, makes her skin burst into heat. She's sure he must feel the blush under his lips.

“Aye,” he murmurs.

He kisses her again, slow and sweet and wet, and she can’t speak.

“What is it?” he pushes her to reveal what she really wants, “what do you want, Princess?”

Her skin is still burning, but she’s lost to pleasure, no longer afraid.

“I want you to do it again.”

She feels the curve of his lips against her as he smiles.

He lifts his head and his brow is quirked and he’s smirking and Sansa thinks he’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.

“There are a great _many_ things a man can do to a woman,” he says, voice more teasing than she’s ever heard it, “each one more pleasurable than the last.”

She’s never heard him, never seen him so wild, so unrestrained, and she revels in it.

“Teach me,” she begs, opening her legs wider to accommodate him, “show me.”

He makes that noise again, all guttural and low and tortured, and then he’s shrugging his doublet off and moving down her body.

His head is just at her stomach when she starts unlacing her nightgown with trembling fingers.

He glances up at her, one eyebrow quirked, a questioning expression on his face.

“I want you to see me,” she explains quietly, “all of me. You’re the only one who can.”

He doesn’t reply, just comes up to her face and kisses her again, unbearably gentle.

Then there’s some shuffling, some shimmying, and she’s bear, cut open and laid out before him.

His eyes darken, pupils blown to black, and he’s as reticent as always, as cool, but his mouth talks nonetheless. He expresses himself with kisses, planting them down her body, and resting at her breasts. He cups one in his calloused hand, his mouth closing over the other.

Sansa arches her back, a gasp falling from her lips as she tangles her fingers in his inky curls. He swirls his tongue around her rosy nipple, tugging at it softly, and jolts of pleasure travel the length of her body.

She’s never felt this way before, like she’s on fire, and it only gets worse (or better) when he softly spreads her thighs and glances down at her.

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t falter, before dipping down and gently blowing cool air over her wetness.

Her thighs feel unbearably slick, her cunt pulsing with a foreign heat, and she fights the urge to buck her hips up to his mouth.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s called the Lord’s Kiss. Trust me,” is all he says in reply.

She wants to – she _does_ – more than anyone.

So she lets him spread her thighs wider and put his mouth on her.

A sharp gasp escapes her, her back arching off the bed, as his hands on her hips keeps her grounded. His tongue licks a hot stripe, from her entrance to her bud of nerves.

“Gods,” she shudders, her hand flying to his head. She tangles her fingers in his hair, needing something to hold onto, and revels in the answering groan he gives her.

His hands spread her thighs wider, fingers digging hot into her skin, and the sounds he’s making are obscene. They stoke her desire, making her chase higher, and her chest feels so tight she can’t breathe.

He eats messily, all lips, teeth and tongue, and when he captures her bundle of nerves between his teeth and glances up at her with almost-black eyes, she shatters. A strangled moan escapes her mouth, close to a sob.

His name becomes her mantra; she murmurs it like a prayer.

As she shakes in the afterglow, he returns to her. His face is wet with it, with _her,_ his beard glistening with her juices, and her cheeks burst into flames again.

She kisses him again, tasting herself tart and tangy on his tongue.

Her hand reaches for his cock, hard and straining against his breeches.

“No, it’s alright,” he murmurs, voice tight, “not tonight.”

“I want to make you happy,” she says, wanting to return the favour.

“You do,” he says simply.

His kiss swallows her reply.


	9. Chapter 9

“What happened here?”

 

Sansa trails her fingers down his sculpted chest, pausing to trace the raised skin of a long-healed scar. The pad of her index finger flits over the damaged flesh, over the crescent shape that spans from his top rib down to his navel.  

 

Jon’s abs twitch under her touch, his head tipping forward to follow the movement of her finger.

 

“It’s getting late, hmm?” he hums eventually. His voice is quiet but his chest rumbles under her palm.

 

Sansa releases a drawn-out breath, settling her head back on his chest. She can feel his heart beat, a rhythm steady and strong compared to hers, and her finger continues to trace a memory.

 

“You always try to distract me when I get too close.”

 

She can’t see his face but his arm tightens around her waist, fingers pulling her closer and dancing along her side.

 

“It’s working, isn’t it?” he asks in that unbearably seductive tone.

 

_Yes._

“No,” she lies, “how did this happen, Jon?”

 

She feels, more than hears, his sigh.

 

“You want to know the truth?”

 

She smooths her finger along the puckered skin again, “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”

 

The other hand, the one that’s not anchoring her to the side of his body, comes to close over hers. As he speaks, he softly moves their hands together. Sansa lets him guide them over the scars that litter his chest, entwined fingers tracing over the tapestry of his life, a map that lays bare his unfaltering strength and bravery.

 

“The truth is… I have so many scars, I can’t remember where they all came from. This must've been in battle, but I can't place which one.”

 

She stares at it for a moment, at the long healed flesh, and wonders about the scars etched inside – less visible, but painful all the same.

 

She turns, leaning her chin against her forearms, crossed over his chest. His chin tips down and he catches her eye, his hand softly stroking through her loose hair.

 

“You could have died,” she whispers and fear trickles through her.

 

 _He could have died_ and he wouldn’t be here and she’d never have known him and what would she have done then?  
  
 

His lips twitch, but he just rests his forehead against hers.

 

“I didn’t,” he says simply and before she can protest again, he captures her lips in a soft kiss.

 

When they break apart, charged air dancing in the gap between them, Sansa feels dizzy.

 

“Was it very awful?” she asks in a soft whisper, mouths brushing, as her fingers come up to trace the red scar running above and below his eye. She’s never appreciated it properly before, never been close enough, and her heart clenches painfully.

 

His eyelashes flutter as she gently touches his face, eyes slightly hooded.

 

“I’ve had worse,” he tries a smile but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

 

“I don’t know what I would do if you died,” she says honestly and he falters slightly, a surprised expression flashing across his dark features, “if I had nothing left of you.”

 

His brows knit into a soft frown and he hushes her, peppering her lips with another soft kiss.

 

She’s not deterred. She wants to show him this; she wants him to _know_.

 

“I thought you were _insufferable_ when we met, so cold and distant,” she mocks with a soft pout, but her eyes are narrowed playfully and her tone is light, “I know you didn’t like me either. You thought me naïve, a spoilt Princess soon to be a pampered Queen. I wanted to stay away from you… and now I find I need you, more than I’ve ever needed anyone.”

 

He doesn’t reply again, but his hands come up to bracket her face and he pulls her mouth to his. She feels everything he can’t bring himself to say in his kiss, his lips slanting desperately over hers. The thought of losing him, of that sword sliding into his flesh just inches to the left, sends a stab of fear through her. She kisses him harder, wilder, her tongue licking inside his mouth.

 

She swings a leg over his body, bracketing either side of his hips. She feels his straining arousal press against her sensitive core and passion flares in her gut.

 

“You must never die,” she pants against his cheek when they break away, feeling the familiar sting of tears and wet between her thighs, “you must always live.”

 

His hands travel to her behind, squeezing slightly, as her hips grind against him.

 

It’s a ridiculous request, impossible to keep, yet he drags her back to his mouth again and kisses her all the same.

 

“If my Princess commands.”

 

She’s not a princess, not really. At least, she doesn’t want to be. She trails her lips down his neck, down his chest. She kisses each scar, lips reverent and worshipful and healing.

 

She’ll be a Princess.

 

She’ll be anything – as long as she’s his.

 

* * *

 

“How are you faring, little bird?” Cersei asks her one hot day when she’s taking her tea in the gardens.

 

Sansa falters, eyes flickering up to the older woman. She’s stunning as always, imposing and cold, and Sansa can’t read the expression on her face. The former Queen always wears a mask, always keeps her emotions hidden being carefully constructed walls. Sansa feels a sickening, foreboding sensation in the pit of her stomach.

 

Looking at her feels like looking in a mirror, catching a glimpse of her miserable future.

 

It’s no secret that Cersei didn’t love Robert either.

 

“I’m fine,” Sansa lies, sending her a false, tight lipped smile. Cersei isn’t deterred, and she takes a place opposite her at the stone table. The afternoon sun seeps in through the trees and the shade, illuminating her golden hair, and Sansa glances down at her untouched cup.  

 

“You don’t have to lie to me.”

 

“What would you like me to say?” Sansa asks, voice tired and lined with sarcasm.

 

Cersei tips her head to the side, contemplative. The cogs in her calculating head are turning and Sansa wants to scream at her, wants to tell her to just go away.

 

“You are right. Perhaps I should just speak instead.” Cersei says, arching a perfect eyebrow.

 

She doesn’t wait for Sansa’s reply before she’s talking again.

 

“I am going to do whatever is in my power to save your father,” she says bluntly, voice clear and even, and Sansa’s eyes widen in surprise.

 

She’s about to blurt out her thanks, about to sing the Queen’s praises, but Kings Landing has hardened her to the ways of the world. Visions of Lady sear behind her vision and she reminds herself Lannisters and Baratheons are not to be trusted so readily.

 

“My father is a traitor,” she says robotically, “I am loyal to the crown.”

 

Cersei rolls her eyes.

 

“No need for that, Joffrey cannot hear you,” she says, “and Ned Stark is worth more to me alive than dead.”

 

Sansa’s brows pull into a suspicious frown, lips pulled tense.

 

“Why?”

 

Cersei clicks her tongue slightly, seemingly deep in thought.

 

“I know how my world works. I have spent my entire life in the shadow of men who do not. Men who underestimate me. In _my_ world, the King does not execute the head of a powerful house and not expect consequences. Look at Aerys Targaryen, his city sacked and his throat slit by a member of his own Kingsguard. Given _your_ guard and his clear affection for you, I fear history may repeat itself.”

 

Sansa’s heart quickens, the pace rising to a butterfly stutter, and she claws for solid ground. Suspicion is lined on Cersei’s face; she doesn’t know everything, but she knows enough.

 

For the sake of herself and for Jon, Sansa fights to keep her expression neutral.

 

“What will you do?” she asks quietly.

 

“I do not know. All I know is that your father’s death benefits no-one. We both know that your brother would seek revenge, would take the North for his own. I already saw him leave the gates, bound for Winterfell. The young wolf’s ties to the Riverlands will help his cause… and that’s without mentioning the potential of dragging the Vale into the conflict. All of this… while Joffrey fights at home to consolidate his power. This is a conflict we do not need.”

 

Sansa can’t believe what she’s hearing. For the first time in days, she feels like she can smile and hope and _breathe_ again.

 

“Do you think you can persuade the King? He is…” _abhorrent, cruel, irresponsible, sadistic,_ Sansa fights for the right word.

 

“Joffrey is young,” Cersei settles for, “it’s true. But he _is_ the rightful King. He will listen to his advisors. He _must_ succeed. Tommen most certainly is too young to take his place.”

 

She references her youngest son, a small boy Sansa’s only met a few times, but who seems to have a temperament vastly different to his brother – intelligent, kind and sweet.

 

“You really think he’ll listen?”  
  


Cersei smiles, but there's little behind it.

 

“Your father is on his way. If he bends the knee, accepts Joffrey as the rightful King before the Gods, old and new, perhaps there is a chance. He must be punished, of course, but sending him to the Wall would be sufficient and it would suppress the Northern threat. Yes, he will bend the knee and all this unpleasantness will be forgotten.”

 

She sounds so sure, so confident, Sansa almost believes her.

 

“How are you so sure he will?” she asks, knowing her father better than anyone. He’s noble and strong and true; she can’t imagine him sacrificing everything he believes in for a lie.

 

Cersei stands, a sharp but melancholy glint to her eye.

 

“He will do it for you,” she says quietly, reaching out to twirl a strand of her red hair between her thumb and forefinger, “he will do it because he loves you and he wants you to be safe. After-all, there is nothing a parent wouldn’t do for their child.”

 

Despite her apparent play for peace, despite everything, it still sounds like a threat.

 

* * *

 

Sansa stays in the gardens long after her tea’s turned cold.

 

She likes the quiet, revels in the solitude and silence, but by the time Jon finds her, there are goosebumps under her skin from the cool evening air.

 

“Come,” he beckons her, one hand on Longclaw at his hip and the other absentmindedly stroking Ghost’s fur at his side, “it’s late.”

 

At the sight of him, beautiful and half cloaked in moonlight, she can’t help the smile that tugs at her lips. She stands, making her way over to him. He doesn’t smile, but his expression is soft, and then her body is moving without her permission.

 

She grabs his hand, not even bothering to scour the surroundings, before she pulls him around the corner and away from prying eyes. Through the gardens and the trees, they settle in a maze of hedges, set far back in the shadows.

 

“Sansa,” he chides, his voice a low and deep warning, “what are you doing?”

 

“Kiss me,” is all she says in reply, Cersei’s words burning in her mind. She cradles his face in her hands and slots her mouth over his. For _once,_ he doesn’t argue, doesn’t push her away, and her blood thrums in thrilled anticipation.

 

When they break away, his hands tug softly in her hair. He just holds her there for a moment and the pleasure of his fingers sliding, twisting gently around the strands and against her scalp, makes her eyelids flutter.

 

His gaze is dark, intense and penetrating, when it connects with hers.

 

“I know this is wrong,” she whispers, “dangerous. We could be seen and Joffrey—”

 

“No,” he murmurs heatedly against her mouth, “don’t say his name, don’t even think it. Not when you’re here with me, like this.”

 

He captures her lips again in a scorching kiss, using his knee to part her legs. He lifts her skirts to more easily press his thigh against her. She’s sure he can feel her heat through their layers of clothes and her hands grip onto his broad shoulders.

 

Her breath hitches as he flexes his hips, their bodies seeking friction. She feels her smallclothes growing damp, hears his body’s reply in his answering groan, his erection hard against her. He thrusts shallowly against her open thighs. 

 

 _If we were naked, he’d be sliding inside me,_ she thinks absentmindedly and her stomach clenches.

 

“Jon,” she pants against his mouth, “I want you.”

 

His eyes seem to darken to an impossible shade of grey.

 

“I want you too,” he says, accent rougher than usual, “I always have.”

 

The revelation stirs something inside her and she shudders delicately.

 

It’s more than that. More than want and attraction and desire. He holds onto her for a while and she holds on just as tight because she’s bound to a man she hates, her father’s in danger and her brother’s lost to a fight he won’t win.

 

The world is falling apart but she just holds onto Jon anyway, confused and tired and wildly, unquestioningly,  _completely_ , in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope this one was okay! it's not as long as the others, it's kinda filler and I'm no good at writing fluff (this is as fluffy as I get) but wanted to get something out there!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Guy from Titanic voice* Helloooo, is anyone alive out there? I know it's been a hot sec since I updated this fic (been sidetracked by my other Jonsa fic) but I'm back bitches. Hope you enjoy this one. WARNING: mentions of sexual abuse in this chapter, not explicit, but it's there.

It dawns unbearably hot, the sun scorching down between the trees, the day Ned Stark arrives in Kings Landing.

 

Called before Joffrey to explain his traitorous ways and face his judgement, the Lord of Winterfell remains strong, resolute and unwavering in his dignity.

 

Sansa’s forced to sit beside her betrothed, hot tears pooling in her eyes, as her father approaches the throne.

 

She wants to scream. She wants to fling herself from her gilded cage, into his arms, always so loving and warm and _Ned._ She wants to say she’s sorry, that she’s missed him and she’s loved him, every day since she opened her eyes on the world. She wants to say she believes him, she _knows_ him, but she just sits beside Joffrey and doesn’t say a word.

 

“Lord Stark,” Joffrey practically sneers, all petulant and disinterested and not intimidating at all, “we’ve been waiting for you quite some time.”

 

“My apologies, your Grace,” Ned nods his head slightly and Sansa notices his gaze upturns to find her. Almost imperceptibly, his eyes trace over her, searching for any sign that she might be hurt. Physically, she’s fine, and his sharp gaze snaps to Joffrey again.

 

“ _Your Grace_?” Joffrey scoffs, a cruel smirk pulling at one corner of his mouth, “how interesting you call me that… given the reason for your being here.”

 

Ned sighs, turning his face away for a moment. It’s tense, the atmosphere stretching out awkwardly between them, and from where he stands beside her, Sansa’s fingers itch to entwine themselves with Jon’s.

 

“With all due respect…” Ned starts, turning his gaze back to Joffrey, “…let’s get on with it, shall we?”

 

“All due respect?” Joffrey mimics again through gritted teeth. He lifts himself out of his throne slightly, his body vibrating with barely restrained anger, and Sansa bristles beside him, “I’m due a lot more _respect_ than that.”

 

“Yield, Eddard. Bend the knee,” Cersei interrupts, her voice smooth. If her use of his first name, her sense of familiarity, moves Ned in any way, it doesn’t show, “admit that you intended to seize the throne for yourself and recognise Joffrey as the rightful King. We are merciful.”

 

The words _Joffrey_ and _merciful_ don’t go together. Sansa knows this. Judging by their faces, every man in court knows this. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Jon’s fingers tapping an even tune on the hilt of Longclaw at his hip.

 

“Confess,” Cersei says again, voice close to a hiss, “and we will exchange execution for exile.”

 

“Exile where?” Ned asks quietly.

 

“The Night’s Watch.”

 

Sansa swallows past the lump in her throat. Castle Black is a world away, even from home, and it’ll be years before she sees him again, if ever. But he’d be alive, he’d be safe, and that’s all that matters.

 

_Please._

 

She begs with her eyes, tries to make them convey everything her mouth can’t.

 

“Enough!” Joffrey snarls, banging his first on the arm of his throne, “this is not your decision, mother.”

 

Cersei leans forward, hissing in his ear.

 

“His son is leading an army to confront us in the Riverlands. If he dies, we have nothing to bargain with. We cannot overplay our hand.”

 

Sansa wants to say her words are wasted. Joffrey cares little for rationality, for what’s right or good, or for what even makes sense.

 

“Guards, take him away!” he bellows, vindicating her thoughts, “take him to the black cells under the Red Keep. You will stay there until I decide what to do with you.”

 

Two guards approach, grabbing him either side. It’s unnecessary, her father would never make a scene, and Sansa wants to run to him again.

 

At the back of her mind, she registers Jon discreetly placing a hand on the back of her throne. His expression doesn’t change, staring stoically ahead, but she knows what it means. He wants her to know he’s here, a small comfort.

 

He can’t touch her, but she feels him all the same.

 

As Ned is dragged away, he catches her gaze and his mouth forms around words she hasn’t heard in a life time.

 

_“I love you.”_

Sansa turns her face away and cries.     
  
 

* * *

 

 _  
  
“Go to him,”_ Cersei had said. If Sansa didn’t know any better, she’d swear the Queen sounded desperate, “ _make him see sense.”_

This is how Sansa finds herself smuggled into Ned’s cell, hood up and disguised as a gaoler.

 

“What are you doing here?” her father gapes, eyes wide and frantic. Before he can scramble to his feet, she closes the cell door and lowers herself to the floor. She throws her arms around him, clutching on tight around his neck, like when she was a child. His own arms wrap hesitantly around her waist and he’s just as warm, as kind and strong, as she remembers.

 

“I’ve missed you so much,” she practically whimpers, heart hammering against a chest that feels too tight.

 

He pulls away, a soft expression on his features. He looks at her for a moment, like he wants to commit her face to memory, before placing a soft kiss on her forehead.

 

“I’ve missed you too, little one,” he says, though she’s not little anymore, “but you shouldn’t be here.”

 

“Neither should you,” she bites back angrily, “you’re kind and smart and _good._ It shouldn’t have come to this.”

 

“I’m sorry it has,” he says mournfully, “all I ever wanted was to keep you and Arya and your brothers safe.”  
  
  


“How are they?” she asks, feeling a rock in her throat, desperate for any scraps of her lost family.

 

“Arya wanted to come South with me,” he says through a barely disguised chuckle, “furious little thing. Bran is frustrated he can’t do more and Rickon doesn’t understand. He misses you terribly.”

 

At the memory of her little brother, the thought of him yearning for her, Sansa’s eyes flood with tears. She feels them brimming at the surface and blinks them back.

 

“And Mother? Robb?”

 

Ned glances to the floor and a sweep of guilt flashes over his features.

 

“Your mother is besides herself,” he doesn’t see the point in lying, “I think she is angry with me. Her stubborn, pig-headed husband, she calls me. Too honourable for my own good.”

 

“She’s right, you know.”

 

Ned gives a soft, sad shrug.

 

“Robb is gathering an army. He’s a capable leader, a smart and shrewd military tactician. Already, there are rumours about him. They say he rides into battle on the back of a giant direwolf. They say he can turn into a wolf himself when he wants. I fear it is too much pressure for a boy his age.”

 

“People and their _stupid_ superstitions,” Sansa rolls her eyes, “you know, you wouldn’t have to fear _anything_ if you just took it all back. Say what they want to hear, father. Save yourself. _Please._ ”

 

Ned’s brows pull into a frown.

 

“What sort of father would I be, what sort of man, if I did not live by my own principles?”

 

“You won’t _live_ at all!” Sansa exclaims, desperate, “Father, he’s going to kill you. You understand that, don’t you?”

 

She can’t bring herself to speak his name, this man-child who will be her husband, and still, she clings to Ned.

 

“There are fates worse than death.”

 

He’s like a brick wall, stubborn and too damn honourable, and Sansa wants to scream.

 

“What about me?” she says after a beat, the first tear rolling down her cheek, “I love you so much. How could you leave me behind, here in this place alone?"

 

“You are Sansa Stark," he says fiercely, like it _means_ something, "you are my daughter and I love you. Nothing will ever change that. Not even death.”

 

Sansa shakes her head, frantic.

 

“The family cannot survive without you,” she practically sobs, clutching onto his furs.

 

Ned gently removes her hands, placing his own on her tear stained cheeks.

 

“It can,” he nods, his strong gaze bearing into hers, “and it will. The weirwood tree does not die when one branch falls. What have I always told you?”

 

Sansa knows what he means, the family words etched on her heart, but she refuses to say them.

 

She just shakes her head, tears still streaming down her flushed skin.  

 

“When the snows fall…” he starts for her, rough brogue softer and lower than usual, “and the white winds blow…” his voice quietens even more and Sansa can’t breathe, “the lone wolf dies… but the pack survives."

 

“What if he’ll let me go?” Sansa says suddenly, clinging to her last vestiges of hope, “what if, in exchange for your confession of treason, Joffrey agrees to release me from this engagement and let me go home?”

 

Ned frowns, the cogs in his head turning.

 

“Then I would confess,” he admits after a beat, “I would do it to save you. This is my only exception.”

 

 _“He will do it for you,”_ Cersei’s sad voice echoes in her mind, _“he will do it because he loves you and he wants you to be safe. After-all, there is nothing a parent wouldn’t do for their child”._

 

Sansa knows it’s unlikely – impossible, even – but she can’t stop the flare of hope that sparks to life inside her.

 

She pulls him into another embrace, fierce and tight.

 

“I will negotiate. I will try, father. Stay strong.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Sansa’s walking on unsteady feet to her chambers when she hears a piercing cry.

 

She knows the castle well enough by now to know it’s coming from Myrcella’s room and she hovers outside.

 

When the young girl lets out another broken sob, Sansa’s chest constricts and she’s knocking before she’s even realised she lifted her hand.

 

The cries stop abruptly, eerie silence falling over them.

 

“Myrcella?” Sansa calls softly through the door, “it’s only me. It’s Sansa.”

 

Myrcella doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t tell her to go away either, so Sansa waits for a brief moment, before she softly pushes open the door.

 

The gasp falls from her mouth without her permission.

 

Myrcella’s a crumpled mess on the floor, sobbing into her hands. Her dress is torn, ripped from her left shoulder down to her waist, and Sansa can see blood seeping from an angry cut in her skin.

 

“Gods,” Sansa rushes over, joining her on the floor, “Myrcella, what happened?!”

 

The younger girl can’t speak; she can barely breathe. She just sobs harder and Sansa’s lost.

 

“Myrcella,” she tries again, reaching for her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and pulling her into her body, “please. Let me help you.”

 

There’s no evidence of a break in, of a theft, and still, Myrcella cries.

 

“Who did this?” Sansa tries again, “the King will have their head.”

 

“No!” she finally snaps to life, head raising to stare at Sansa frantically, “no please, please don’t say anything to Joffrey.”

 

Myrcella shakes her head maniacally, blue eyes terrified, and the penny drops.

 

_No._

Sansa feels like she’s going to be sick.

 

“Myrcella…” she starts, voice quiet, like she’s approaching a startled deer about to bolt, “…did Joffrey do this to you?”

 

She can tell the girl thinks about lying, can tell by the slight widening of her eyes, but then she’s sobbing again, fragile and broken.

 

“Did he hurt you?” she needs the confirmation, needs to hear it.

 

Myrcella cries again, fat tears that roll down rosy cheeks.

 

“He hurts me every night,” she says, like a weight’s been lifted off her shoulders, “he says I’m a woman now. Since I bled. I can’t stand it, Sansa.”

 

Sansa’s eyes and throat burn, bile rising from the back of her throat. She grabs a nearby blanket and pulls her close again, wrapping it around them both and holding her to her side.

 

“Did he…?” she can’t say the words.

 

Where it rests against Sansa’s shoulder, Myrcella shakes her head.

 

“No… but he does other things. He makes me do things…” her voice catches again, fluctuates and breaks, and Sansa doesn’t want to make her say any more. She doesn’t want to hear any more.

 

“It’s alright,” she murmurs and her own breath catches and she’s so _sick_ of crying, “I won’t _ever_ let him touch you again. I promise.”

 

Her voice is fierce, lined with bitter fury.

 

She doesn’t know _how_ she’ll keep that promise, but she knows that she will.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Sansa’s still crying when she leaves Myrcella’s room – and then she’s knocking on Jon’s door without even realising she’s walked there.

 

His sharp eyes quickly survey the surroundings, checking she hasn’t been seen, before he lets her in and shuts the door.

 

She just looks at him for a moment, eyes red and puffy, and she knows she must look a mess but she can’t bring herself to care. She’s tired of caring, tired of the weight on her shoulders. She doesn’t want to keep secrets anymore.

 

She wants to tell him how she feels about him. How it’s hard for her to look at him and not touch him, how he’s the only thing that ever makes her feel better, how she thinks he’s beautiful and kind and smart and she’s falling in love with him… because she just _knows_ he feels the same way.

 

“What’s wrong?” he asks immediately.

 

She wants to laugh at the absurdity of the question.

 

Her father’s facing execution and her brother is at war and Joffrey hurts Myrcella and _still_ , she wants Jon all the time. She wants him even though she can’t have him and she wants him to take it all away.

 

It’s not what’s _wrong_ , it’s what’s _right_ , and nothing’s right.

 

Nothing except him. 

 

She wants to tell him this; she wants him to know.

 

She walks over to him, picking his limp arms up and wrapping them around her.

 

“Please, Jon. I need you to make this day something else. I need it go away.”

 

“It won’t go away,” he says evenly, harsh but true, “you can’t run away. And if we do this, you can’t go back.”

 

“I don’t want to go back,” she insists quietly, “I don’t. If I’m sure of anything anymore, it’s that I’m sure of _you._ You’re the only one who makes me feel okay and _gods_ , I need that now. Everything is so wrong, so broken, but you… Jon, I think I’m falling in lo—”

 

“Don’t,” he says suddenly, brusquely, and he steps away and Sansa’s arms ache from the loss.

 

He turns away from her and it feels like she’s been kicked in the stomach.

 

She wraps her arms around her waist, like she physically needs to hold herself together.

 

“Am I wrong?” she asks incredulously.

 

He turns back to her and he looks beautiful and brooding and conflicted.

 

“You don’t know what that means.”

 

The words hurt and she knows why he’s doing it, why he’s trying to keep her at arm’s length. But it’s too late for that now, and she won’t let him slip away like everything else.

 

“I do,” she takes a step towards him, “I know I’m young and I know this is the last thing either of us expected to happen, but you’re just… you’re _in me_ now. I do. I love you.”

 

The words escape her so quickly, it’s like she didn’t mean to say them, and he looks as surprised as she feels.

 

“And I have been _trying_ not to say it,” she’s still talking, her mouth moving without her permission, her body sparking to life, “I’ve been trying so hard to just ignore it and make it go away and _not say it_ … and I’m a Princess and I have to marry Joffrey whether I like it or not because, let’s face it, he’s not going to let my father go, but I love you anyway. I am so in love with you. I can’t think about anything else. I can’t sleep and I can’t eat… I can’t _breathe…_ and I love you. I love you all the time, every second of every day.”

  
He stares at her, steel grey eyes shining and jaw clenched tight.

 

He doesn’t speak.

 

He doesn’t say it back.

 

He just closes the gap between them and kisses her so fiercely, she staggers backwards.

 

Her back hits the wall, not at all gentle, and his hands cradle her face. He takes advantage of her gasp of surprise, his tongue pushing into her mouth, and she matches his vigour with tears in her eyes.

 

“Sansa,” he breathes her name like a prayer.

 

He bites his way down her neck, planting open mouthed kisses down the length of her skin. His movements feel free, less restrained, power thrumming from his fingertips. It’s intoxicating and she tips her head back, heart hammering inside her chest.

 

His thigh nudges her legs apart, slotting between them. He lifts her slightly and then he’s _there,_ his erection pressing against her hot, clothed cunt. Everything moves faster then, burning hotter and brighter than before, and she spreads her legs wider.

 

“Jon,” she’s panting and so is he and he lifts his head from her neck to look at her, “I’m ready.”

 

His eyes darken, molten grey, and his gaze flickers to her lips.

 

“We shouldn’t,” he murmurs, some semblance of sense piercing through the cloud of desire between them. If they do this, she won’t bleed on her wedding night and Joffrey will come to his marriage bed expecting a maiden for a wife.

 

“We should,” she says defiantly in response, “please, Jon. I’ve already lost so much. Let me have this. Show me. Love me.”

 

He doesn’t hesitate this time. He kisses her again, hot and heavy, his arms twining around her waist and pulling her close. He twists them, walking forward as she walks backwards, until her back is hitting the bedpost.

 

He drops to his knees, gaze blown to black and piercing, as he pushes the material of her dress up. She helps him, gathering the material at her thighs, and he’s too rushed, too desperate, to remove it. Instead, he just moves her smallclothes aside and latches his mouth to her cunt.

 

Sansa keens against the bedpost, her head hitting the wood. His tongue slides up and down, fingers digging hot into the flesh of her thighs, as she spreads them wider. One of her hands travels up, gripping the post, while the other curls in his hair, pulling at the leather band that ties it back.

 

She runs her fingers through his curls, tugging slightly. The pressure makes him groan, a soft grunt into her heated flesh, and the vibration sends a delicate shudder through her.  

 

He licks a hot stripe, his too-pretty mouth coaxing her pleasure from her. His tongue plays with her sensitive knot of nerves before travelling down, wetting his beard with her. Finally, he pushes his tongue inside her, fingers spreading her apart.

 

Sansa almost wails in pleasure, a sob caught in her throat. She feels her thighs begin to shake, that tight bundle of desire knotting in the pit of her stomach. Slowly, he pushes a finger inside her, breaching her walls, and it’s this that pushes her over the edge. The band snaps, white hot pleasure rushing over her, and she has to clamp a hand over her mouth.  
  


Still shaking in the afterglow, she registers him wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His beard still glistens with the evidence of what he does to her and it reignites her desire.

 

“Undress me,” she commands, surprised at her own boldness. He obeys her, sliding her dress off her shoulders while she undresses him with shaky hands.

 

In the blink of an eye, they’re naked and Sansa’s not trembling, not scared.

 

Hands gripping the backs of her thighs, he lifts her to wrap her legs around his waist before he’s dropping her on his bed. She settles on the furs, already reaching for him, already too much time apart.

 

He settles between her legs, propping himself up on one forearm. His cock is hot and hard against her, sliding against her cunt, still wet with his mouth and her arousal. Cradled between her open thighs, he thrusts shallowly against her, the head of his cock pressing against her throbbing clit.

 

A gasp of pleasure catches in her throat, her eyes falling shut at the sensation.

 

His fingers travel down, tweaking her clit. Two fingers slowly push inside her, stretching her, preparing her, before sliding up and down her slit and spreading her wetness.

 

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs huskily and she thinks it's rather obvious, what he does to her, but she doesn’t say a word, “is this all for me?”

 

“Yes,” she moans, head tipping back, “for you. Only you.”

 

“Aye,” he groans at her slickness, tight around his fingers.

 

“Please, Jon,” she’s not above begging, but he doesn’t make her wait.

 

He bends down to capture her lips in a soft kiss, resting his forehead against hers.  

 

“You’re sure?” he asks, brushing her hair from her forehead.

 

“I’m sure,” she confirms, kissing him again.

 

Slowly, he takes his cock in his hand and guides it to her soaking entrance. He pushes the tip in and Sansa hisses at the stretch, trying to keep calm.

 

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, “relax.”

 

She tries to listen, heart hammering against her chest as he pushes in further and further, past her barrier. There’s a sharp stabbing pain, but Jon kisses her to take it away, and as he thrusts out and in again, the stabbing merges into more of a dull ache.

 

“Better?” he asks, voice tight.

 

Sansa nods, fingers digging into his biceps, carving moon-shaped crescents into his skin.

 

Once he’s sure she’s okay, his thrusts become faster. She spreads her thighs wider, welcoming him deeper inside, and he lets out even pants of breath against her neck. She threads her fingers through his hair, the other hand resting on his back, as pleasure curls inside her.

 

His thrusts become more erratic, less restrained, and with every push inside her, Sansa feels some of the pain of the day fade away. She holds onto him and he holds on right back.  
  
  


“Sansa,” he breathes her name against her neck, a muffled groan, and she revels in it.

 

“Yes,” she sighs, opening wider for him, “come for me, Jon. I want to feel you.”

 

He moans again, a deep, guttural sound, and he waits until she peaks. Just as the white hot pleasure starts to ebb, she feels him swell and pulse inside her before he quickly pulls out and covers her inner thigh with his seed.

 

He comes with a groan, his chest rising and falling quicker than usual. Intrigued, Sansa’s hand travels to her thigh and she gathers the liquid, feeling it warm and wet and sticky between her fingers. Briefly, she’s thankful he has _slightly_ more sense than her. Though the idea of babes with his curls and her eyes, his brooding temperament but her fierce loyalty, fills her with something warm, she knows it can’t be.

 

This was dangerous enough – though she can’t bring herself to regret it.

 

Sated, she settles on his chest when he falls back onto the bed. His arm wraps around her, pulling her into the side of his body.

 

A layer of perspiration covers their skin and they’re silent for a moment. 

 

“I think you love me,” Sansa whispers eventually, voice muffled against his chest.

 

“Gods, Sansa,” he sighs.

 

“It’s okay,” she shrugs, “you don’t need to say it.”

 

She felt it.


End file.
